Growing up, I cried a bit more than average I would guess. There were many reasons for that, but I think that most of it stemmed from my deep-rooted fears that God decided to deal with later on in my life.
Then when my mom died, I cried every day for awhile...
Then every other day...
Then a few times a week...
Then every other week...
Then sporadically here and there... every month or so.
Now, when I say cry, I'm not counting the times when I tear up while watching a sad movie or other moments in life when tears come into my eyes. Crying to me is when tears are overflowing and they last more than a minute or two. My mom used to call them "big crocodile tears".
Maybe one of the reasons I don't cry as much now is because I don't have as much time to think.
When I truly take the time to be still ... tears come.
It's almost as if my body doesn't let me grieve except for the times when I give myself permission. I wish that I would get some still time every day... but unfortunately, I don't always do it. Even in my quiet times in the morning, sometimes my mind isn't at rest and truly still.
The thing is: I've never felt the freedom to let myself become lost in feelings of grief. This excuse sounds lame, but I really don't have time.
If I could drive away to a secluded cabin in the middle of the mountains and spend a few weeks there... with no telephone. No Internet. No distractions. Ah... that would be a taste of Heaven. It would just be me, my writing utensils, my Bible, my walking shoes so I could go on hikes, and a few carefully selected books. Oh, and I can't forget the chocolate and Kleenex.
Then, in that secluded place... I would cry. I wouldn't have interruptions. Busyness wouldn't be allowed to cloud out my feelings any longer.
I would cry until no tears were left.
I would tell God why I wish my mom was still here. Why everything seems to be going wrong and how hard life is. I would talk to him about my confusion, my sorrows... the sadness that still grips my heart even when my life seems "perfect" to the outside observer. I would talk to him about my fears regarding many things. And then I would be silent... and let the crocodile tears slide down my cheeks in the stillness.
Tears would fall... for what I've lost, for what I've gained, for what is behind and what is to come.
I don't cry like I used to. Not because I don't feel like I used to, but simply because I don't allow myself to be still and let the tears fall.