For A Tear

To pour out the infinite, unknowable ache of the soul in physical expression is possibly the bravest act in the world. What are tears but the insurrection of a broken heart, pushing the world out and away from the throbbing pain of a scourged soul? True tears--undeniable tears born out of utter confusion, hopelessness, and loss--what are they if not bolts by which our world is fastened down? What are tears but silver lines by which we trace our very identity? 

They are defenders, gilded in sparkling white, rushing wave after wave to guard the human spirit from all manner of attack. Each tear, a tiny soldier shielding the flickering light of God's-breath born in the heart of every man. They are those tent-posts that establish character and belief. The human life is bound within the perimeter of tears--life's manual written in a pained hand, road signs printed out in grief, passages closed for the loss of hope's light. And, the man is outlined farther still inside the world he has constructed by and through tears. Virtues are sold by the block and tears compose their steep price. It is as if a layer of pain surrounds the universe and as God sends a virtue down, it passes first through that globe of suffering. Would man remember and trust such gifts if they were not pressed down and engraved into him by the heavy hand of pain? How would he proceed down the way of life if some milestones in the path were not hard-purchased by grief? 

Why then would humanity ever claim that acknowledging pain, fear, and grief--passions felt by all humanity and consequence of all---was, in some way, weak by its very nature? Why would humans ever discredit the unleashed fury of a bottled and long berated sob? Why would humans ever belittle the searing pain of silent weeping? 

Crying is not weakness. It has always been a sign of great strength. 

From the time a child is first born, crying is seen as a sign of life. Many mothers and midwives have waited and prayed to hear the startled wails of a newborn. Tears are the anthem with which death is repelled and life is established. Babies, the pinnacle of humanity's innocence, are understood through their tears. It is those mercurous lines that trace out the child's existence and lead them forward into the limelight of their prime. And what does man become in the limelight of his glory days? 

A warrior. 

It seems to be no coincidence that warrior's are also known by their cry. Could it be that the champions, standing atop the spoils of victory, are unified with their most innocent self? Could it be that the war-torn hero is as much a pinnacle of innocence as experience? Could the devil's grief and God's peace meet and become the true warrior's greatest teacher? Could it be that the victor's wine is the mingled tears of pain and joy? 

The highway to heaven is lined with silver streetlamps--mournful and joyous tears alike. 

So cry. 

Let every searing streak of salt down a man's cheek be the farrowed road that leads him home. Let every sob suppressed at midnight be the resilient call-to-arms of a ravaged soul. Let every rasping shriek of pain be one more victorious breath snatched away from the jaws of death. 

Let the lost cry. Let the broken cry. Let the weak cry. Let the belittled, forgotten, and shattered cry. Let the used and the grieving and the fearful cry out. Let the sick, the poverty-stricken, and the depressed cry. Stand aside, as the bitter and the hopeless cry once more. 

Cry for help. Cry for forgiveness--for hope, for justice, for peace. Cry for things long lost and things long prayed for. Cry for things shattered beyond repair and things gifted anew. Cry for the humility and for the peace that follows. 

Man was made to cry. 

To cry life. To cry victory. To cry "Abba, Father". 



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