Sometimes We Just Need To Cry

It’s no secret that I’m a crier. In fact, I have very talented tear ducts. They cry in joy and in sorrow, and they cry prayers and allow release. They cry over meaningful stories and they cry over ridiculous jokes. They cry when I’m full of energy and they cry when I’m exhausted from life. They cry if someone talks about putting in contact lenses and they cry for other people when those people cannot cry for themselves. Yet. Seldom do they cry raw, flowing tears when I’m around anyone else. Those tears—those deeply hurting, lonely, sad, frustrated, agonizing, almost-full-body tears—are usually reserved for God alone.

I remember one specific time, though, when I cried those tears in front of a dear friend, and she pulled me into her arms and let me weep. I burrowed my head into her shoulder and sobbed—for mean words and heartbreak and failed plans and misunderstanding and the work-dementors that were sucking life from me at the time. She held me as I cried and she didn’t flinch when my tears literally wet her shoulder. In that moment, I was so broken that I couldn’t even apologize for falling apart. All I could do was let someone support my weight and…cry.

…

As my first class approached the doorway today, I heard someone crying—and these were not petty, passing, she skipped me in line, tears—these were those deeply hurting, almost-full-body tears. By sheer good fortune, the guidance counselor was in my room at that moment, so she got the rest of the class settled while I held the crying kid. Literally. I wrapped my arms around his sobbing little body and held him to my heart. “Breathe, sweetie,” I said. “Deep breaths. In and out. In and out. Breathe with me. In and out.” After a few moments, I noticed that I had started rocking him back and forth, still gently whispering, “In and out. Breathe in and out.” After another few moments, I felt the fight leave his body and his breathing fall into rhythm with mine. After another few moments, I gave him the option of going to his seat or going to lie down in the back of the room until he was ready to join class. He chose the latter. Then he did join class and had a wonderful time.

I have no idea why he came to music class sobbing. Had something bad happened at home? Had something bad already happened at school? Had he been blamed for something he didn’t do? Had he gotten caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing? Had he eaten breakfast? Had he gotten enough sleep? I have no idea. But what I do know that is that he needed to cry.

…

A student on Tuesday needed to cry, too. He went from his normal attitude of “I hate music” to a place of deeply sad tears in a matter of minutes. One moment, he and his friends were defiantly choosing to sit at the back of the room under the refocus table so that they could talk and be silly, but the next minute all three of them were covering their heads with their shirts and crying. Not wanting to stop the rest of class from a strangely productive and focused music lesson, I went on with the lesson. After class, on my way into the building for lunch, I was bombarded by other students telling me that the three were crying because one of them was moving and the friendship posse was going to be separated.

As I stood in the class’s classroom, waiting for their supervision to arrive, thinking about how I wasn’t going to have time to eat lunch, wondering what in the world I was supposed to do with the kids for the next however long I had them, I felt someone come from behind on the right and latch on for a side hug. This particular class has a couple of huggers, so I didn’t think anything of it. Until I looked down. And I saw the top of “I hate music”’s hoodie. And I realized that a kid who ordinarily doesn’t even acknowledge that I exist was burrowed into my right shoulder, sobbing.

One of his classmates said, “Ms. Deaton, you’re going to miss lunch.”
I said, “No worries. I’ll be fine. I’ll stand here for a few more minutes.”
So I did. Holding “I hate music.”
He cried. He didn’t say a word. Then he wiped his tears and walked away.
I left the room with a tear-soaked shirt, wondering what in the world had just happened.
I guess “I hate music” needed to cry. And I guess maybe “I hate music” knew that music didn’t hate him.

…

Sometimes, friends, we all just need to cry.
And sometimes the safety of loving arms is exactly where we need to land.
My arms are open.
I often imagine God’s arms open as well.
Are yours?