Grandma's Tears

My Grandma cried at the drop of a hat. Our family wasn't always sure what to do with these tears randomly falling from her eyes. They would well up and she wouldn't be able to speak. We learned to just smile and later laugh at Grandma's wellspring of tears.

Most of the time the reason she teared up was quite obvious; she never liked saying good bye even if it was just for a few days. Other times the reason seemed a bit more obscure; she would cry when we passed a train station, talked about a train station or even just heard a faint train whistle. This caused a young porter to almost faint when he was helping her depart from a train and feared he had hurt the weeping old woman.

In the past two years, I, too have begun to find tears in my eyes more and often rolling down my cheeks. I recently cried when entering a Sam's Club. The woman asking for my membership card looked at me like I had lost my mind. My young daughter questioned my sanity when I cried in the previews and throughout the entire main feature recently. Church friends have come to expect the flood of tears I shed during worship and run for the tissue box as the worship begins.

When she was five years old, Grandma and her parents boarded a train in Missouri and moved to Washington state. It was this "good bye" she remembered with her tears for the rest of her life. I remember being told this story as a young girl and wondering what it was like to experience a goodbye which lasted a lifetime.

Some "leavings" cast an indelible mark on our hearts. These partings can make us bitter and hard. Or they soften our hearts to the pain of others. My Grandma had a soft spot for those who were away from home. Weekly until she died she wrote letters or notes to those she knew were hospitalized or away from home. When I left for college and subsequently moved across the country, I received a letter weekly from Grandma for over 10 years.

So maybe I won't begrudge Grandma for my tears. Instead, may my own heart stay so soft that I become aware of others pain and do what I can to help. And if tears are necessary for this to happen, then pass the tissues cause I will proudly follow in Grandma's footsteps.

How am I Going to Explain that One

How am I going to explain that one? As a parent, I come across these moments all of the time. When the children were young, it was how am I going to explain where do babies come from in an age appropriate scientifically correct manner. Or every year when telling of the Christmas story in church, the astute 4 year old hears the word “virgin” for the first time and requests a definition. I remember being told of a sweet 7^th grade girl asking one time what a “eunuch” was in Sunday School. Exactly how do you tell her the correct definition in the middle of a group of young boys without it being totally embarrassing?

The writing process is a lot like asking this same question over and over again. How am I going to explain that one? It is both an exciting question since there are a gazillion (great word by the way) different ways to say the same thing. Each word used in describing the situation can bring a different meaning or nuance. Culture and exposure affect how we hear words. These layers of meaning can on one hand make the process more difficult but also if explained can bring deeper meaning. When I was young toboggan meant a sled, when we moved to the south it was a hat. Everywhere else I’ve lived, pasta means spaghetti. In Pittsburgh, it is the umbrella that covers over a multitude of different types of noodles. If my shopping list said pasta here, I would have to make sure I knew what kind of pasta I was asking for, penne, linguini, fettuccine, spaghetti.

Language is fun and trying to determine the best way to get my point across is the joy of writing for me. As a kid, I remember carefully opening up my new box of 64 crayola crayons, breathe deep the vapors of new waxy crayons and contemplate which color I would choose first and what would I draw first. Endless possibilities awaited, of course I always chose the green and colored the grass first. As I sit down to write with a thought I want to express words and images float through my head like the crayons in that newly opened. Which ones will I use and which ones will get this important point across best. It is a frustrating and invigorating task. When the inspiration is there the words flow and the choices are easy. But when the words aren’t there it can be like trying to color the sky without a blue crayon.

When the thought is about something important it can be even more difficult. Like today, I have these thoughts running through my head that are amazing, or at least seem amazing to me. And I really want to share them and I want others see just how amazing this thought is but I am not sure I have the right words yet to get this point across. The crayon box is open but none of the colors seem adequate. These are even more important words because they are words about God, thoughts about who He is and what He means to me. How do you explain God in mere words?

The joy of scripture is that it is God using language through human writers to describe who he is – the unexplainable one. Scriptures are words – the same limited and inferior words that I have to choose from. But they are words used for a divine purpose – limited and inferior words become sacred when touched by God’s inspiring hand. Every time I sent down to write about God or anyone else does for that matter, we undertake the task of trying to explain the unexplainable in words and the result is sacred. And when someone tells me that they understand what I was trying to say or that they were touched or moved by what I wrote – that is divine inspiration. Because really it was just me and my little old green crayon trying to make something that looked like grass – if it did look like grass, than that was God’s handiwork, not mine.