Tears of a Clown

This past week has been something of a roller-coaster. Usually we try to handle the ups and downs with as much aplomb as possible. But every once in a while the emotions are just beneath the surface, looking for an opportunity to come bubbling out.

The first thing that happened almost got by us without any fanfare at all. I don't "facebook", but my bride does. One morning last week she sent me an email that was copied from our son-in-law's facebook page. As most of you know our eldest daughter is a three-time cancer soldier. It started when she was eleven, reoccurred when she was twenty-one, then again three years ago after the birth of our granddaughter. It is through this twenty-odd year journey that I have developed most of my thoughts and opinions on prayer and guidance and mercy and God's mission and all the other big theological distinctives. They don't necessarily line up with my tribe's conventional wisdom, but they are hard earned feelings. We have experienced the devastating news of recurrence, and we have endured the slow rebuilding of faith. The news he reported was that the oncologist had told them that the tumors in her liver were too small to be called tumors any longer. Stunning news, overwhelming news, news almost missed due to my lack of techno involvement. So how do I react to this news? Did I jump for joy? did I shout? Did I fist-pump? No, I cried. Deep, thankful, humiliation inducing tears.

Saturday we joined my youngest in a March of Dimes walk. We were on Team Lincoln. for some reason his battle in NICU for the first month of his life has transformed my youngest into an activist. Who knew? It was a 5 mile walk (just about 18 holes) As we moved along there were little signs that "honored" this child and that who had been born preemies, or birth defects (like Lincoln) and usually showed a smiling young child, growing and healthy and a blessing to their families. There were other signs, though, signs that said, "In Memory" These broke my heart. I tried to read each one, but the emotional battle became too fierce. For, you see, I was fighting back tears while walking. Hopes and dreams and futures dashed before they could be realized. Unfortunately, I could more than understand the pain and the need to move on, like our walk, seeing some signs of hope and joy, and other signs of "what could have been."

And then there was my daughter-in-law having to go to the hospital in a panic that there was something going wrong with her pregnancy. She is 7 months along, they had a very hard time getting pregnant, and each little bobble rightly creates a lot of anxiety. As soon as we heard that not-yet-born Isaac was okay, and mom was okay, and things would progress normally, we finally let our guard down a little. My son was apprehensive and as we ran for food at a nearby restaurant we talked. The concern in his voice and the fear that this might not end well again broke my heart. Now here is where maturity helps a little. Advice about how to handle this was flying out of my mouth before I had a chance to stop it. It occurred to me that the wisdom came from 20 years of praying, making mistakes, losing hope, gaining faith, learning to baton down the hatches and cope. I have no idea if he heard any of this, but he seemed to respond. Now when I got alone...I cried.

So here is my question. Since when did this become my response to good news, bad news, joyous news, worrisome news. I hate it when I cry. I feel like an idiot. Worse yet I feel like my kids are going to slap me in a home for the emotionally unstable.

"Doc, he just keeps bursting into tears. We can't handle it anymore."
"Hmm, perhaps we can try some shock therapy, or maybe there is something else wrong."
"Well, fix it. He's a mess."

I suspect it is the loss of control. It has come as a slow realization that in most of life's circumstances we have very little control. Of course when we do have control we usually screw it up, so I'm not sure why we such as fixation on it. It does help a little that the one I follow was called a "man of tears". He understood the value of tears as an expression of deep feelings, of great passions. But it still exasperates me that at those moments words fail me and tears are the only way to communicate my emotions. I would prefer erudition, but what I get are tears, tears of a clown. Sigh.

Anyway, here's hoping for a calm week. No news is good news.

Godspeed
Don