The Gift of Tears

It was my tenth birthday. My grandmother was ill and we were visiting, me and my Dad. My father, a man of deep insight and wisdom, but few words, opened the door to her bedroom, knelt beside me and whispered, “Say ‘goodbye’ to your grandmother.” As he closed he door and left the room, I blinked to find my grandmother. She was resting on her bed bolstered by pillows on either side and at her back. She gestured for me to sit on the bed beside her. As I approached her the scent of roses drifted toward me.

By the time I reached her bed, she was totally surrounded by light and I leaned into her outstretched arms and allowed myself to feel her warmth. I nestled into the silver-silken waist-length braid over her shoulder. Were I there to comfort her, that was not the case. What seemed like too short a respite in her arms, my grandmother sat me up and firmly placed her worn hands on my shoulders. Without saying a word she looked deeply into my eyes. A tear dropped into my lap, I slipped off the bed and slowly backed away maintaining eye contact, our arms softly extended toward each other. Her body slowly lost its glow and I felt and overwhelming love encompassing me. The meaning of the moment and significance of the her final moments were not wasted on a child so young.

I went outside, wandered the perimeter of the red ranch-style house before walking further into the fields and full extent of the five acre farm in southern Ohio. As the sun began to descend, my heart knew that this was a different kind of “goodbye.” No one had to tell me that I wouldn’t see my grandmother alive, again. Visiting the beautiful farm changed in a few short breaths. This time, no waving as I looked out the rear window, my father slowly driving up the mile long drive-way, the scent of a leftover meal, home- made rolls, and fresh-baked desserts saturating the car. After a few hours of walking I rested on a bale of hay in a barn among the cows.

Hours later my father found me and wrapped a quilt around my shoulders and clasped my hand as we walked outside into the chilled night. He told me to "Look up.” Pointing upwards to a sky dense with sparkling stars he said, “there’s your grandmother.” As a young child ruminating on the vast sky of twinkling lights, I stood taller, breathed deeper, and found solace in the notion that my grandmother had reached heaven so quickly.

The imprint of being hugged by my dying grandmother and the comfort I felt in her in arms, the tears that rolled down my cheeks, the silence, and the stars laid the foundation for me to develop an immense reverence for life and death — and set me on the path of an empath. I recognize how easily I’m stirred by current events: starvation in a distant country, migrating humans, devastation from natural disasters, a young dancer overcoming a challenging physical feat, or updates on my nephew’s wife recuperating from breast surgery. All these events and so much more stir my soul and initiate a sense of solidarity with someone else’s suffering.

Both Saints Francis of Assisi and Clare wept often throughout the day, overcome by beauty, suffering, joy, and messages of hope. Unlike the tears of my youth which rose up from a deep well of loss—not understanding the mystery of transformation—my adult tears carry a feeling of vulnerability and the essence of compassion for a world struggling with equitability, justice, and peace. These tears are the moments that allow me to rest in the “steadfast love” that sustains and carries us all (Psalm109).

The mystics might have called their tears an act of self-emptying which led to an opening, a space in which to receive grace. In response to deep emotions, tears fall as a natural, human response. Our imagined wholeness is critically examined and put on display. Tears express a level of sensibility to people and events around us both near and far. Whether the response is grief, compassion, or even joy we build deeper connections to spirit and humanity if we allow ourselves to cry when needed. These connections to others and ourselves expands our “relational fields,” according to Thomas Hubl. What an amazing way to live if we as a society could allow ourselves the vulnerability to recognize another’s suffering through our own gift of tears.