There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.
– Washington Irving
I do not cry like people think men cry.
When it comes, it is not a single tear rolling down my cheek. It is not dignified. It is not quiet. It is a severe thunderstorm with pouring rain and loud exclamations. Raw, guttural yelling, full of anger and loss, in a way no one has ever seen me. I have had these storms alone in my backyard. In my home office when the house is silent. In my truck.
Most of the time, I am quiet. Even-keeled. Stoic, even. People who know me casually probably think I am fine. I am not fine. But the dam does not break on a schedule and it does not break politely.
I was driving one night to meet a friend for stargazing in a rural area. Caleb and I used to do this together. Somewhere on that dark road it hit me. Not a tear. The storm. When a real thunderstorm occurs, windshield wipers help maintain visibility. I had no such help. That drive without Caleb wrecked me emotionally and could have wrecked the truck.
Society has opinions about this. Men are supposed to hold it together. Be strong. Keep it in. I have heard it my whole life. Most men I know in grief have heard it too. So we perform. We show up composed. We answer “I’m okay” because nobody wants the real answer. And then it builds and builds until it detonates in private where no one can see it and no one can judge it.
I do not cry because I am weak. I cry because my son is dead and my arms are empty and there is nowhere to put that. There is no container large enough. So it comes out in a flood, scary and huge and sloppy, and then I collect myself and go back to being the version of me the world is comfortable with.
“You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in your bottle.”
– Psalm 56:8, ESV
Faith has been both my anchor and my question mark. The Lord is close to the brokenhearted. I believe that. But faith does not stop the questions. Why did Caleb die? Why did we lose Emily and Alex? These are not rhetorical. I have asked them a thousand times and the silence is deafening. Wrestling with them has deepened my relationship with God, but I will not pretend the wrestling does not leave marks.
Even the hope of heaven does not negate the hurt of right now.
I wrote this on a bad day. I am not writing it to tell anyone what to do. I am not writing it to be brave or to model healthy grieving or to check a box for mental health awareness. I am writing it because somewhere out there is a man sitting in his truck in the dark, terrified of what just came out of him, wondering if he has lost his mind.
You have not.
It is the sanest thing your body knows how to do.
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