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.
