Hammocks and Tears

Last Sunday in church I had one of those really good cries.  They don't come often but when they do I feel completely free and brand new.  I didn't expect this one, it came through a worship song.  All of a sudden, before I knew it, my hands were lifted high up in the air and my shoulders were shaking and tears were streaming down my face.  I took communion with a bright red nose and cheeks and mascara blotches around my eyes.  

It felt great.

This cry made me think back to my last really good cry.  My last cry was so good I had to write about it.  I wrote it while on the farm in Nicaragua and I apologize in advance for the length- I just can't get enough of words and this cry cannot be understood without the full story.  At least, I think;)

My hands aren’t completely soft like before; they are calloused from using a machete.  The dirt underneath my toenails will take a few pedicures to clean and my arms and shoulders look fat, to fashion magazine standards, though I see new muscle and feel proud. My belly is bigger from always going up for a second helping of rice and beans. 

It took two planes, a car, two buses, a ferry and another cab to get to the Island with two volcanoes. One of which is still active.

Was I scared?  Yes, beyond belief.  Though I was more scared of how I’d feel if I didn’t go. 

I knew what I was doing but also I didn't.  I'd ask myself, "Why exactly are you here?"  and reply with wavering confidence, “To help, to serve, to learn about farming in a developing country.  To make the world a better place?”

It all seemed somewhat clear.  

What is clear is that our world is beautifully complex, full of people with really calloused hands, all doing their part, to make it better.   These aren’t people we read about or see on TV, they go on, building and creating, like tiny leaf cutter ants, completely unnoticed. 

Details from the farm have woven together, making for one blessed experience.  Some I can remember well, while others I can't seem to recall.  

I can recall little homes, with lots of people sitting outside them in worn plastic chairs, women sweeping dirt floors. Each wrinkle on their face told a story of resilience and strength, one I might not ever understand.   I see piles of trash being burned and can taste the plastic fumes.  I hear cows, donkeys, horses and pigs roaming the streets.  I see children with really big smiles playing outside with lots of other kids with really big smiles too. 

I’m hopeful the details I can’t seem to recall now will turn up, when they are meant too. Though a certain day I can recall, as if it were just yesterday, is this. 

The morning chores were over and I was feeling a bit restless. My sister and I hadn’t spoke in quite some time; we’re both busy bees, running to this and that, always finding a way to squeeze just one more thing in.  Though the farm taught me how to slow down, the beauty in simply being.  Something powerful happens when we connect to that place. 

Our conversation moved from work and relationships to Grandma.  She had few words; just “She looks so frail.”  I always had a feeling that she might not make it until I came home but I selfishly wanted God to wait.  I wanted to delight in her company once more, to make up for all those should haves.  Should have asked more questions, should have sat with her at Thanksgiving dinner, joined her in making Irish Pudding, asked her how she made the perfect cup of tea every time.  Be careful, we can make ourselves go crazy over all the Should Haves. 

The sadness became too heavy to carry and I needed a place to simply be. Though the farm offers little room for privacy.  There is no shutting the door.  There is face your problems, insecurities and frustrations full on in front of the group.  For someone afraid of being so open and raw, it is completely embarrassing, challenging and humbling.  

The tree house is your only escape; a short climb up a ladder to a hard wood surface, surrounded by trees and sky.  I often sat up there to meditate, to be silenced from the clouds atop the volcano. Sometimes my thoughts were so heavy I worried the branches might break; sometimes I merely counted the leaves on the tree above me.   With no family around to hold me, I sought this tree too. 

I ached for a good cry.  You know the one where it starts from way down deep, deep within the gut of your stomach and then your whole body seems to shake and you can’t stop.  Suddenly your crying for all the times you should have but decided not to.  It’s as if your emotions are saying, “Yes, I am here.  Don’t you remember?  Honor me.  Feel what you feel.  You know you want too.  It’s okay if you do, I’ll still think you’re strong.” 

So I sat there to be alone, to honor my emotions, to allow the severity of she looks frail to set in, still no tears.  I thought if I waited long enough they would come and the healing could begin.  

I heard footsteps up the ladder and Joe’s gentle voice.  His Irish accent was a remedy as my Grandmother emigrated from Ireland in 1953.  I peeked back to give him a smile and saw that he was carrying something. He didn’t say anything just started tying his hammock to either side of the tree.  

I tried to say something, anything, though I was overwhelmed with gratitude, from his simple act of compassion.  All he asked was that I didn’t wear my shoes when in it. 

Lucky for him, I was already barefoot. 

It was the nicest thing anyone had done for me in quite some time.  I curled up in the large hammock, so big that it even offered shade from the sun, and then it came.  Way down deep in my heart I began to weep.  I hadn’t cried that freely and heartfelt in so long.  It felt amazing.  Why had I been waiting for?  

Suppose all I needed was a softer place to land.  Thank God for hammocks.