Cry Baby

I embrace the sighs after bitter tears and runny noses. I hold it close to me. That moment of unclenching when the tension of fear, worry, bed bugs dissolves itself past the pit of stomachs, the miles of overworked intestines, through obliging belly buttons, and into the nothingness too afraid to be hoped for, is for me a kiss with the Divine. Lungs are large then small, eye lids rested, ears quieted, soul well.


I am a crier. I always have been and probably always will be. Flashbacks of bitter words, hurt feelings, and sixth grade boys worked over through Jesus, therapists, and a theatre degree have helped me accept this part of myself without shame. And when I cry, I breathe, and things just feel…better. As of late, the majority of my crying has been at church. By the time I make my way to the 7pm Chelsea service, the workings and implications of my week have clung to me like barnacles, layer upon layer of cares here, worries there, with a generous helping of how, why, where all over. They, along with me, make the journey up the narrow aisle, over cooperative knees, and into the small slot on the end of pew number six one row too far from the oscillating fan.

There are a whole host of reasons I find myself every week in bench number six ,and most of them are not as high and holy as they should be. But I make it, and sometimes that in and of itself is the answered prayer. I sit there waiting for the service to start, waiting for my mind to still, waiting for him to talk to me, waiting for HIM to talk to me, waiting … waiting… The music starts and my voice gradually unhinges itself from the sticky parts of my throat and my mind and body try to focus on this concept of God and man and The Story. This part is hard because I always get distracted, lost in myself, lost in the sound of my voice, busy with the loud buzz of me. Then the music stops, announcements are announced, hands are shaken, offerings offered, prayers prayed, words spoken, time to say goodbye. But in this beautiful, sometimes rote consistency, the most shocking and unexpected thing happens. God shows up and then… I cry.

He doesn’t give me answers, assurance, the “A” for effort. He gives me Himself, His Son, you.

I embrace the sighs after bitter tears and runny noses. I hold it close to me. That moment of unclenching when the tension of fear, worry, bed bugs dissolves itself past the pit of stomachs, the miles of overworked intestines, through obliging belly buttons, and into the nothingness too afraid to be hoped for, is for me, a kiss with the Divine. Lungs are large then small, eye lids rested, ears quieted, soul well.