Simple.
That’s pretty much me. I don’t mean simple minded, now. I don’t know anything about quantum physics, can’t tell you much about what the old philosophers thought back in the day and can’t even balance my checkbook to save my life, but none of those things are really that important to me.
Even though those who know and love me best sometimes declare that I am very high-maintenance, I don’t think I am at all.
I’m basically … well, simple.
I prefer my cheeseburgers plain although I will sometimes add the pickles, mustard and onion to the meal. I could be content with a whole wardrobe of khaki pants, denim slacks and red, pink or Carolina blue solid colored shirts. I sometimes wear shirts with stuff printed on it, but I truthfully don’t feel comfortable in them.
My shoes aren’t Prada by any means. I may have a few name brands in my closet at home, but that’s only cause Shoe Carnival deeply discounted ‘em. I go more for comfort than designer name.
There’s no polish on my fingernails when I allow them to grow. I’m picky about my hair even if I just really wash it on a daily basis and allow the blow dryer to determine which measure of messy it looks. I wouldn’t get a frequent pedicure even if someone paid for it. I hate for anyone to touch my feet much less look at them.
I’m simple.
I don’t own a diamond. Much of the jewelry I have carries more sentimental value than monetary value. The necklace I never remove was a gift from my best friend shortly after I came to know her. I sometimes wear the ring I bought my mother the first Christmas I had my first job. She returned it to me the last Sunday of her life, uttering how she had always been proud of me and how much she loved me shortly before slipping into a coma from which she never returned.
I have simple dreams, hopes and desires. Some of them – like the fire engine red Mustang GTO, the 70-300mm Canon zoom lens or Tag Heuer watch – could be a little more easily obtained than others. Although I attempt to keep my life simple and worry-free, I sometimes have to think during the loneliest moments that there really has to be more to life than this and believe that eventually my shot at happiness and complete contentment will come my way.
Simple goals, yeah, but honorable ones.
I didn’t become simple on my own, really. My parents had a simple belief system that if you worked hard and remained honest that you would be respected. They also thought that a good name was more important than vast riches and instilled that in me as a child. They believed every person had good within them, that it was up to us to find it sometimes. They truly judged people by the content of their character and not the color of their skin and sought friends from literally all walks of life. True friendship was measured by them not in what people could provide for them but how people could make their lives more enjoyable and, in some instances, simpler.
Growing up, my parents simply insisted that I attend church and went with me. They didn’t indoctrinate me with lots of religion, but wanted to make sure that, instead, I was filled with lots of God. They truly believed the Word and lived the Micah 6:8 principle of life by doing justly, loving kindness and walking humbly with God. Not ignoring the New Testament, my parents loved God with all their heart, soul and mind and truly loved their neighbor as themselves.
I simply want to carry out that legacy above anything else.
For years, I found myself trying to be the complex person I thought the world wanted me to be. And I attempted to do various things to get God’s attention in an effort to become one of His favorites.
Often, I’d find myself frustrated with my attempts. And I felt my simpleness made me so unworthy of His love.
Several years ago, I began to become a bit more comfortable in my own skin. It was at a weekend women’s retreat when I finally figured out that God could – no, DID – love someone as simple as me. And that I truly am one of his favorites, as simple as I am.
I was no longer ashamed to be simple or to possess little when measured against the wealth of this world. Because of my simple faith in Him, that no longer mattered.
Nope, I haven’t “arrived” yet, though. I still struggle with acceptance and worth. I’m still attempting to surround myself with others who can accept someone who is simple – who maybe are even simple themselves.
Simply stated, I am who I am and what I am because of Who created me. Like it or not, simple enough.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Making the best one ever
“I want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich cause you make the best ones ever.”
That was the response from a friend’s six-year-old son when she asked him what he wanted for lunch.
Nevermind that he had just declared to her that he was never,ever leaving home, even after he gets married. In his six-year-old mind, marriage meant just moving his new wife in with his mama.
I asked my friend how she could ever feel too down on herself when she had him around with such compliments. She never really commented, but she didn’t really have to say anything. It was one of those times when the smile on her face literally said it all.
Driving home from that conversation in the church parking lot today, I couldn’t help but think about how much different – and better – our world would be if we adopted that six-year-old’s attitude and were so open with our feelings or compliments about folks. Rather than solving issues by killing each other with a .9 mm, why can’t we simply sidestep the negatives by pointing out the positives about those living in the world around us.
I’m just as guilty. I judge someone harshly by a negative remark they make about me or a short or terse reply they give rather than attempting to figure out what it was that made their day so bad in the first place. Probably 99 percent of the time it wasn’t what I said that set them off yet I happen to have the shrapnel fired toward me anyway.Or I cut people down with a slight, sarcastic remark because I'm too afraid to build them up with a kinder word.
I think it’s truly all about thinking before you speak and weighing your words wisely – two life lessons various people have probably been attempting to instill within us since we were in elementary school or before.
How much nicer would this world be if we adopted the “you make the best peanut butter and jelly sandwiches ever” attitude? If rather than cutting someone to the heart, we opted to pat them on the back. Or if we couldn’t think of anything positive to say to someone we simply chose to, as wiser people than me have often urged, say nothing at all.
Words are often sharp and cutting. But words can also be calming and soothing, literally the best medicine someone can take. Or give.
I don’t make the best peanut butter and jelly sandwich ever, but I’d like to think there is something I can do for someone that makes them believe it’s the best ever. My earnest prayer is that I live my life trying to achieve that on a daily basis. That I learn to make the proverbial best peanut butter and jelly sandwich ever for at least one person in this world.
Call me Pollyanna, I don’t care. It may not lead to world peace, but it certainly won't hurt to be kinder and gentler.
That was the response from a friend’s six-year-old son when she asked him what he wanted for lunch.
Nevermind that he had just declared to her that he was never,ever leaving home, even after he gets married. In his six-year-old mind, marriage meant just moving his new wife in with his mama.
I asked my friend how she could ever feel too down on herself when she had him around with such compliments. She never really commented, but she didn’t really have to say anything. It was one of those times when the smile on her face literally said it all.
Driving home from that conversation in the church parking lot today, I couldn’t help but think about how much different – and better – our world would be if we adopted that six-year-old’s attitude and were so open with our feelings or compliments about folks. Rather than solving issues by killing each other with a .9 mm, why can’t we simply sidestep the negatives by pointing out the positives about those living in the world around us.
I’m just as guilty. I judge someone harshly by a negative remark they make about me or a short or terse reply they give rather than attempting to figure out what it was that made their day so bad in the first place. Probably 99 percent of the time it wasn’t what I said that set them off yet I happen to have the shrapnel fired toward me anyway.Or I cut people down with a slight, sarcastic remark because I'm too afraid to build them up with a kinder word.
I think it’s truly all about thinking before you speak and weighing your words wisely – two life lessons various people have probably been attempting to instill within us since we were in elementary school or before.
How much nicer would this world be if we adopted the “you make the best peanut butter and jelly sandwiches ever” attitude? If rather than cutting someone to the heart, we opted to pat them on the back. Or if we couldn’t think of anything positive to say to someone we simply chose to, as wiser people than me have often urged, say nothing at all.
Words are often sharp and cutting. But words can also be calming and soothing, literally the best medicine someone can take. Or give.
I don’t make the best peanut butter and jelly sandwich ever, but I’d like to think there is something I can do for someone that makes them believe it’s the best ever. My earnest prayer is that I live my life trying to achieve that on a daily basis. That I learn to make the proverbial best peanut butter and jelly sandwich ever for at least one person in this world.
Call me Pollyanna, I don’t care. It may not lead to world peace, but it certainly won't hurt to be kinder and gentler.
Marbled beauty
“Mississippi had no art except in cemeteries. I like the tombstones showing children asleep in seashells. I love this sleeping child who is cracked from top to bottom. A broken chain and a hand removing one link – I like this kind of rope, a rope of years. And two joined hands, those are of parting, at least that’s how I interpret it. There were lots of baskets that spilled out their flowers. Look at the lambs and their kinky curls. I like this one, the willow tree that snapped off in two. I love the family beneath the willow tree. They’re grieving for their lost father and husband. Poor little things, they’re just knee high. All these little bitty things, weeping at her knee. On the gate at the Port Gibson cemetery the figures are in grief. They’re weeping for all the sadness within. People planted Easter lilies around their relatives. I suppose the choice of plantings was entirely up to the individual. A lot of hardy flowers that could withstand the freezes, and plenty of blubs in the springtime. These look like little roses.” -- Eudora Welty, Country Churchyards
Although I’d hardly say I write a miniscule amount as well as Eudora Welty, I was thrilled to find a book in our local library containing cemetery photos taken by Miss Welty herself. I admire her work greatly and it’s awesome that she and I had something in common other than writing.
My fascination with cemeteries began when I was a small child. I loved Granny Hughes, my mother’s mother, dearly and spent as much time with her as I possibly could short of moving into her house on Franklin Street.
Papaw Hughes died suddenly of a heart attack when I was barely five years old. Although I adored him, my grandmother was devastated at his death. Often when I would go to her house to visit her, she would often want to trek to Henry Cemetery to visit Papaw. I didn’t quite understand the visits, but I would attempt to make the best of the time we spent there. I would often walk around and read the grave markers in the vicinity of Papaw’s grave. Sometimes I would practice my math skills by figuring out how long the people buried nearby had lived before they died. When my neighbor died, I would sometimes sit on his stone and tell him what his widow had done since my last visit to the cemetery. I wasn’t certain if he could hear me, but I thought it was important for me to keep him informed about her.
As a child, I understood the significance of a cemetery, but I never really saw the beauty of it. It was probably my junior year of college at Mississippi University for Women when I discovered the beauty that often lies within the gates of cemeteries. I was encouraged to go to Friendship Cemetery in Columbus to obtain some magnolia leaves for a project I had undertaken. While there, I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful the cemetery grounds were. There were various forms of statuary and each one was quite unique. But it was one marker in particular that got my attention quickly. Sitting at the grave of a minister, the marker is a beautiful marble angel. There is no doubt when you see this angel that you can tell she is very grieved because it looks as if she is weeping.
It was the memory of that grave marker that led me to encourage my best friend, Mandi, to accompany me to the cemetery again to take photos one homecoming weekend at The W. We went for a few hours that Saturday evening and had such a wonderful time taking photos of the various markers that we decided to return the next day. We spent about six hours there.
We didn’t locate the weeping angel marker until the second day we visited Friendship Cemetery. But seeing her again was well worth the length of time it took to find her. The sky could not have been any bluer for the photographs even if we had polarizers on our lenses.
Because of this cemetery, we now spend lots of time haunting various other graveyards in North Mississippi. On a recent trip to the District of Columbia, I spent several evenings researching what cemetery in the area would be a good one to visit. We ended up choosing Congressional Cemetery and spent five hours scouring the grounds there seeking unusual markers as well as the final resting places for various famous Americans. I truly wish I had done a little more research as I found one of the people involved in the conspiracy to kidnap, and later kill, President Abraham Lincoln was buried there. It would have been a challenge to find his grave, as he has no marker, but it is supposedly near his sister’s grave.
Now Mandi and I spend spare time travelling backroads of various areas of North Mississippi in search of unusual cemeteries. Sometimes we have a destination in mind. Other times, we just pick an area and drive until we find a cemetery. One thing I have noticed. You may drive for miles down a rural county road with nothing but scrub trees and weeds along the right of way. But when we finally locate the cemetery, it’s always amazing to me how immaculate the grounds are.
Growing up, my mama always told me that there were two things belonging to people that you never “messed with” – their money and their dead. Viewing the beauty of some of the country cemeteries in this area, I truly know she was right on target with the latter part of her assessment.
Although we will continue to happen upon some of the old country cemeteries in this area, we have some actual trips planned to some larger ones in nearby areas. We want to tour a large cemetery in Memphis and another one in Huntsville, AL. We also plan a trip to Natchez this fall and have already begun planning which ones we will haunt on that trip. I guarantee a side trip to Port Gibson will be on the itinerary.
Some folks may think my cemetery photography hobby is a bit morbid. But I don’t consider it that at all. I find that there is beauty all around us – even in cemeteries – if we simply take the time to look for it.
Although I’d hardly say I write a miniscule amount as well as Eudora Welty, I was thrilled to find a book in our local library containing cemetery photos taken by Miss Welty herself. I admire her work greatly and it’s awesome that she and I had something in common other than writing.
My fascination with cemeteries began when I was a small child. I loved Granny Hughes, my mother’s mother, dearly and spent as much time with her as I possibly could short of moving into her house on Franklin Street.
Papaw Hughes died suddenly of a heart attack when I was barely five years old. Although I adored him, my grandmother was devastated at his death. Often when I would go to her house to visit her, she would often want to trek to Henry Cemetery to visit Papaw. I didn’t quite understand the visits, but I would attempt to make the best of the time we spent there. I would often walk around and read the grave markers in the vicinity of Papaw’s grave. Sometimes I would practice my math skills by figuring out how long the people buried nearby had lived before they died. When my neighbor died, I would sometimes sit on his stone and tell him what his widow had done since my last visit to the cemetery. I wasn’t certain if he could hear me, but I thought it was important for me to keep him informed about her.
As a child, I understood the significance of a cemetery, but I never really saw the beauty of it. It was probably my junior year of college at Mississippi University for Women when I discovered the beauty that often lies within the gates of cemeteries. I was encouraged to go to Friendship Cemetery in Columbus to obtain some magnolia leaves for a project I had undertaken. While there, I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful the cemetery grounds were. There were various forms of statuary and each one was quite unique. But it was one marker in particular that got my attention quickly. Sitting at the grave of a minister, the marker is a beautiful marble angel. There is no doubt when you see this angel that you can tell she is very grieved because it looks as if she is weeping.
It was the memory of that grave marker that led me to encourage my best friend, Mandi, to accompany me to the cemetery again to take photos one homecoming weekend at The W. We went for a few hours that Saturday evening and had such a wonderful time taking photos of the various markers that we decided to return the next day. We spent about six hours there.
We didn’t locate the weeping angel marker until the second day we visited Friendship Cemetery. But seeing her again was well worth the length of time it took to find her. The sky could not have been any bluer for the photographs even if we had polarizers on our lenses.
Because of this cemetery, we now spend lots of time haunting various other graveyards in North Mississippi. On a recent trip to the District of Columbia, I spent several evenings researching what cemetery in the area would be a good one to visit. We ended up choosing Congressional Cemetery and spent five hours scouring the grounds there seeking unusual markers as well as the final resting places for various famous Americans. I truly wish I had done a little more research as I found one of the people involved in the conspiracy to kidnap, and later kill, President Abraham Lincoln was buried there. It would have been a challenge to find his grave, as he has no marker, but it is supposedly near his sister’s grave.
Now Mandi and I spend spare time travelling backroads of various areas of North Mississippi in search of unusual cemeteries. Sometimes we have a destination in mind. Other times, we just pick an area and drive until we find a cemetery. One thing I have noticed. You may drive for miles down a rural county road with nothing but scrub trees and weeds along the right of way. But when we finally locate the cemetery, it’s always amazing to me how immaculate the grounds are.
Growing up, my mama always told me that there were two things belonging to people that you never “messed with” – their money and their dead. Viewing the beauty of some of the country cemeteries in this area, I truly know she was right on target with the latter part of her assessment.
Although we will continue to happen upon some of the old country cemeteries in this area, we have some actual trips planned to some larger ones in nearby areas. We want to tour a large cemetery in Memphis and another one in Huntsville, AL. We also plan a trip to Natchez this fall and have already begun planning which ones we will haunt on that trip. I guarantee a side trip to Port Gibson will be on the itinerary.
Some folks may think my cemetery photography hobby is a bit morbid. But I don’t consider it that at all. I find that there is beauty all around us – even in cemeteries – if we simply take the time to look for it.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Slight identity crisis
6 6 2 2 8 6 5 2 7 1
Nope, that’s not part of my Social Security number. But those 10 numbers identify me more than the other nine ever could. Mostly because seven of the numbers have been a part of my life, well, most of my life.
When I was three years old, we moved to Corinth and 5271 became our phone number. Several years later, the phone company added the 6 to the number and before I was in high school, the 2 and 8 were added as well.
Throughout my life, I gave that number out quite often. In fact, I repeated that number so often that I honestly didn’t think too much about it when I stated it. Several years ago, I gave in and went wireless.
Four phones later, I’m still not totally comfortable with the number I was assigned. It still seems foreign every time I give it out as mine and I always second-guess myself and worry I transposed some of the digits when repeating it to others.
Like it or not, though, I now have to get used to my cell phone number since my home phone is no longer working. I’d been saying for months that I should disconnect my home phone number since I didn’t use it that often. But, for many sentimental reasons, I couldn’t bring myself to actually call and tell AT&T to turn it off.
Finally doing the math, though I realized that a little over $400 a year was a fairly high price to pay for sentimentality. So the person who rages against change called up and made a pretty major change in her life.
As silly as it sounds, I really wanted to cry after I made that call. In time I will appreciate the extra funds in my bank account, but right now I feel a little raw about it.
Most likely, that sentimental feeling about something that’s seemingly trivial as a telephone number probably is enhanced by the time of year I chose to disconnect my service. Having telephone service was very important to my mother. She called herself a “homebody” and I honestly think she enjoyed that role. Besides going to church each Sunday and Wednesday night, going grocery shopping from time to time and random visits to Wal-Mart, Mama rarely left the house. Her telephone was her link to those she cared most about. She was most comfortable sitting at her kitchen table and talking with friends and family members for hours. It would sometimes frustrate me when I needed to make a telephone call and she was in the throes of one of her many conversations. But I grew to accept that the communication link was way too important to her for me to attempt to interfere with.
And I still miss seeing her sitting at the table, laughing with one of her friends or family members on the other end of the line.
Last week, though, common sense overcame sentimentality. I finally remembered to unplug my answering machine a couple of days later. Maybe, in time, I will quit listening for that familiar ring.
Nope, that’s not part of my Social Security number. But those 10 numbers identify me more than the other nine ever could. Mostly because seven of the numbers have been a part of my life, well, most of my life.
When I was three years old, we moved to Corinth and 5271 became our phone number. Several years later, the phone company added the 6 to the number and before I was in high school, the 2 and 8 were added as well.
Throughout my life, I gave that number out quite often. In fact, I repeated that number so often that I honestly didn’t think too much about it when I stated it. Several years ago, I gave in and went wireless.
Four phones later, I’m still not totally comfortable with the number I was assigned. It still seems foreign every time I give it out as mine and I always second-guess myself and worry I transposed some of the digits when repeating it to others.
Like it or not, though, I now have to get used to my cell phone number since my home phone is no longer working. I’d been saying for months that I should disconnect my home phone number since I didn’t use it that often. But, for many sentimental reasons, I couldn’t bring myself to actually call and tell AT&T to turn it off.
Finally doing the math, though I realized that a little over $400 a year was a fairly high price to pay for sentimentality. So the person who rages against change called up and made a pretty major change in her life.
As silly as it sounds, I really wanted to cry after I made that call. In time I will appreciate the extra funds in my bank account, but right now I feel a little raw about it.
Most likely, that sentimental feeling about something that’s seemingly trivial as a telephone number probably is enhanced by the time of year I chose to disconnect my service. Having telephone service was very important to my mother. She called herself a “homebody” and I honestly think she enjoyed that role. Besides going to church each Sunday and Wednesday night, going grocery shopping from time to time and random visits to Wal-Mart, Mama rarely left the house. Her telephone was her link to those she cared most about. She was most comfortable sitting at her kitchen table and talking with friends and family members for hours. It would sometimes frustrate me when I needed to make a telephone call and she was in the throes of one of her many conversations. But I grew to accept that the communication link was way too important to her for me to attempt to interfere with.
And I still miss seeing her sitting at the table, laughing with one of her friends or family members on the other end of the line.
Last week, though, common sense overcame sentimentality. I finally remembered to unplug my answering machine a couple of days later. Maybe, in time, I will quit listening for that familiar ring.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Like it or not, things change
“The only thing constant in life is change.”
At least that’s what French classical author Françoisde la Rochefoucauld first stated and many of us have come to believe. That statement came to mind a few nights ago as I was having dinner with my best friend and she was talking about future plans and possibilities.
Although I’m trying not to be so resistant to change,I’m not a big fan of it. I’m the type personality that likes to know things - and people - will be consistent. Yet the older I get, the more I realizethat people change just as things do. Often they change more than things do. I’m not really stuck in a routine, per se, but I do seem to be a bit more comfortable with the way things in my life are going lately.
Life is pretty good for me despite some of the crazy twists it has taken recently. And though I’m still hoping 2009 will be ahappier year personally, I do realize there could be events during the coming days that will possibly rock my world just as some seemed to do in 2008. Hopefully I’m better prepared for them now, though. And better prepared for change as well.
I’m also looking forward to the possibilities 2009 will bring. A bit of personal growth and maturity could be on tap as well, something I won’t be quite as resistant to as change. Although I’ve seen lots of growth within this year, I certainly know I haven’tarrived yet.
Probably the thing that concerns me most about changes in the future deal s with those nearest and dearest tome. I don’t relish the thought of time, distance or other means potentially separating us. I try not to fear it, since I honestly can’t control it. But I still don’t like the prospects.
I guess that’s where faith comes to play in relationships. And possibly another de la Rochefoucauld quote does, too: “It’s more shameful to mistrust one’s friends than to be deceived by them.”
Maybe I need a bit more confidence in myself in order to have even more trust in those around me.
(I wrote this several years ago in my other life. It's still as pertinent and relevant today. I was thinking about it earlier this afternoon and decided to reuse it. Hope you glean some nuggets from it!)
At least that’s what French classical author Françoisde la Rochefoucauld first stated and many of us have come to believe. That statement came to mind a few nights ago as I was having dinner with my best friend and she was talking about future plans and possibilities.
Although I’m trying not to be so resistant to change,I’m not a big fan of it. I’m the type personality that likes to know things - and people - will be consistent. Yet the older I get, the more I realizethat people change just as things do. Often they change more than things do. I’m not really stuck in a routine, per se, but I do seem to be a bit more comfortable with the way things in my life are going lately.
Life is pretty good for me despite some of the crazy twists it has taken recently. And though I’m still hoping 2009 will be ahappier year personally, I do realize there could be events during the coming days that will possibly rock my world just as some seemed to do in 2008. Hopefully I’m better prepared for them now, though. And better prepared for change as well.
I’m also looking forward to the possibilities 2009 will bring. A bit of personal growth and maturity could be on tap as well, something I won’t be quite as resistant to as change. Although I’ve seen lots of growth within this year, I certainly know I haven’tarrived yet.
Probably the thing that concerns me most about changes in the future deal s with those nearest and dearest tome. I don’t relish the thought of time, distance or other means potentially separating us. I try not to fear it, since I honestly can’t control it. But I still don’t like the prospects.
I guess that’s where faith comes to play in relationships. And possibly another de la Rochefoucauld quote does, too: “It’s more shameful to mistrust one’s friends than to be deceived by them.”
Maybe I need a bit more confidence in myself in order to have even more trust in those around me.
(I wrote this several years ago in my other life. It's still as pertinent and relevant today. I was thinking about it earlier this afternoon and decided to reuse it. Hope you glean some nuggets from it!)
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Taking my medicine
I cried the other night and, well, it stunned me.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m not against crying. It’s just that I hadn’t cried in so long I was afraid something was wrong – emotionally, of course – with my tear ducts. And my heart. I was a little concerned that I was becoming hardened to situations around me.
In all honesty, my heart that had once been pliable and tender seemed a bit toughened. And it worried me since I’d always considered that one of my best qualities.
It’s impossible for me to reveal where the tears originated or what spawned them. I do not know exactly. I have some ideas, but to credit one occurrence with the deluge of tears is not something I can do. It was really a mixture of numerous things including emotional exhaustion.
The tears scared me at first. Not that they were falling, mind you, but the fact that I was not just softly crying. I was wailing. Sometimes wailing to a point that I couldn’t get my breath. I cried so hard at one time that my head pounded as if my heart was beating there.
And maybe it was to get my attention.
The tears lasted for 30 minutes or so before subsiding to slow, hot trickles down my cheeks. I was somewhat dazed and confused after the incident, but felt as if I’d been walking on the treadmill at cardiac rehab for numerous hours. I was empty yet I, surprisingly, felt full.
I felt refreshed and revived. I didn’t have any more answers to some of the questions that I had prior to the outburst, but I had something more important than that. I had hope which is something I hadn’t felt in several months either. And it was a very cathartic experience. That’s a big word for a not-so-pretty event. To put it nicely, it was a cleansing experience for me.
Still thinking about the event today, though, I began looking for references in the Bible for tears. Using an Internet search engine (because I’m told “Googling” isn’t a verb), I found, instead, another blog that helped make a little more sense of my experience. In “Radical Living in a Comfortable World,” blogger Seth Barnes quoted a report by Mary Beth Swan:
The Bible (Strong’s Concordance) provides 697 references for verses associated with crying (weep, cry, tears).
One of the first Bible references for tears is in the book of Genesis when Abraham wept over the death of Sarah. Hannah wept before the Lord in her barren state. Esau wept over his father Isaac, asking for a blessing. King David writes prolifically in the Psalms of his tears before the Lord, even saying they were his portion day and night.
The Bible provides accounts of tears of grief (as above, also David weeping over the death of Absolom, Jairus’s daughter and the death of Jesus Christ). Others wept tears of repentance and sin-sorrow (Israel as they stood to hear the scriptures read and were broken over not following the Lord their God and His law, David as Nathan confronts him, Ninevah when Jonah finally goes there to pronounce God’s judgment, Peter after the rooster crowed for the third time). Jeremiah was called the Weeping Prophet, authoring the book of Jeremiah and the Lamentations of Jeremiah. Jeremiah wept for the pride of Judah. Israel cried to God in affliction. Professional mourners attended the deaths in New Testament times. Jairus’s daughter’s death may have been one instance of this. The commentaries vary.
God is called “Comforter” (Jeremiah, for example) and the God of all comfort. God’s law and His love are described as comfort-givers. The body of believers is called to comfort, also. II Corinthians 1:3-5. “Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort; who comforts us in all our tribulation that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God. For the sufferings of Christ abound in us, so our consolation also abounds by Christ.”
Now that it seems I’ve had a breakthrough of sorts, I’m ready once again to be a comfort to those around me again. Maybe the tears were also a rejuvenation of sorts for me to gain strength to return to the tasks at hand. Tears are like medicine and wash the weary heart and soul.
I’m now claiming Luke 6:21 where Jesus says, “Blessed are ye that weep now; for ye shall laugh.” i’m ready for 45 minutes of rib hurting laughter. I’m certain that will be medicinal as well.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m not against crying. It’s just that I hadn’t cried in so long I was afraid something was wrong – emotionally, of course – with my tear ducts. And my heart. I was a little concerned that I was becoming hardened to situations around me.
In all honesty, my heart that had once been pliable and tender seemed a bit toughened. And it worried me since I’d always considered that one of my best qualities.
It’s impossible for me to reveal where the tears originated or what spawned them. I do not know exactly. I have some ideas, but to credit one occurrence with the deluge of tears is not something I can do. It was really a mixture of numerous things including emotional exhaustion.
The tears scared me at first. Not that they were falling, mind you, but the fact that I was not just softly crying. I was wailing. Sometimes wailing to a point that I couldn’t get my breath. I cried so hard at one time that my head pounded as if my heart was beating there.
And maybe it was to get my attention.
The tears lasted for 30 minutes or so before subsiding to slow, hot trickles down my cheeks. I was somewhat dazed and confused after the incident, but felt as if I’d been walking on the treadmill at cardiac rehab for numerous hours. I was empty yet I, surprisingly, felt full.
I felt refreshed and revived. I didn’t have any more answers to some of the questions that I had prior to the outburst, but I had something more important than that. I had hope which is something I hadn’t felt in several months either. And it was a very cathartic experience. That’s a big word for a not-so-pretty event. To put it nicely, it was a cleansing experience for me.
Still thinking about the event today, though, I began looking for references in the Bible for tears. Using an Internet search engine (because I’m told “Googling” isn’t a verb), I found, instead, another blog that helped make a little more sense of my experience. In “Radical Living in a Comfortable World,” blogger Seth Barnes quoted a report by Mary Beth Swan:
The Bible (Strong’s Concordance) provides 697 references for verses associated with crying (weep, cry, tears).
One of the first Bible references for tears is in the book of Genesis when Abraham wept over the death of Sarah. Hannah wept before the Lord in her barren state. Esau wept over his father Isaac, asking for a blessing. King David writes prolifically in the Psalms of his tears before the Lord, even saying they were his portion day and night.
The Bible provides accounts of tears of grief (as above, also David weeping over the death of Absolom, Jairus’s daughter and the death of Jesus Christ). Others wept tears of repentance and sin-sorrow (Israel as they stood to hear the scriptures read and were broken over not following the Lord their God and His law, David as Nathan confronts him, Ninevah when Jonah finally goes there to pronounce God’s judgment, Peter after the rooster crowed for the third time). Jeremiah was called the Weeping Prophet, authoring the book of Jeremiah and the Lamentations of Jeremiah. Jeremiah wept for the pride of Judah. Israel cried to God in affliction. Professional mourners attended the deaths in New Testament times. Jairus’s daughter’s death may have been one instance of this. The commentaries vary.
God is called “Comforter” (Jeremiah, for example) and the God of all comfort. God’s law and His love are described as comfort-givers. The body of believers is called to comfort, also. II Corinthians 1:3-5. “Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort; who comforts us in all our tribulation that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God. For the sufferings of Christ abound in us, so our consolation also abounds by Christ.”
Now that it seems I’ve had a breakthrough of sorts, I’m ready once again to be a comfort to those around me again. Maybe the tears were also a rejuvenation of sorts for me to gain strength to return to the tasks at hand. Tears are like medicine and wash the weary heart and soul.
I’m now claiming Luke 6:21 where Jesus says, “Blessed are ye that weep now; for ye shall laugh.” i’m ready for 45 minutes of rib hurting laughter. I’m certain that will be medicinal as well.
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