This is nothing new. I find myself tearing in response to the oddest things. Recently, it’s gotten worse, or better, depending on your take on it.
I’m happy, so I don’t think it’s a sign of some large and looming issue in my life. No, I suspect it has to do with change, transition, and getting older.
Most often, the tears kick in when I think about my children. How proud I am of each of them! They’re balanced, independent, and for the most part, happy. What more could a parent want? These are tears of gratitude and joy, mixed with nostagia and heartache.
Then again, it’s time for my testosterone, shot, so it could be nothing more than a chemical imbalance.
This morning, I strated crying while listening to Justin Biebers “As Long As You Love Me:”
“As long as you love me we could be starving we could be homeless we could be broke.”
I texted those lyrics to Frank and he replied, “LOL.”
Ruth called me while I was shopping for the Thanksgiving groceries. She had watched an episode of Modern Family and was laughing about y similar the comedy was to her own family. I laughted with her, but it was all I could do not to start crying in Kroger.
When I take a break from work-week rountine, a break that holidays make possible, I am able to step back just enough to see again the amazing life that is mine. I am grateful beyond words for family, friends, good health, and a comfortable home.
Blessings to you this Thanksgiving Day.
Tears begin rolling down my face, followed by bed-shaking sobs, as I lay in bed reading this Huffington Post article. Please take a few minutes to read it now.
I had a relatively happy childhood/young adulthood. So why the tears?
I cried for every gay man and gay woman of my generation who would never have dreamed never of sitting at the dining table and telling his parents he was gay.
I cried for woman and gay of generations who have have sat at that table but who were abandoned, rejected, or in even some small way made to feel less-than.
I cried out of gratitude for a mother, a sister, a life-partner, children, and friends who not only accept me, but who love me for who I am.
I cried because once more I remembered that it is my job to love my own children just like what I read in the article, and not just my children, but all God’s children, even (and especially!) the ones who may reject me and find me unlovable.
I believe that, no matter who you are or what you believe (gay, lesbian, bi, questioning, transgendered, intersex, straight, conservative liberal, democrate, republican, Catholic, Baptist, Methodist, Jewish, Hindu, Buddhist, Atheist, Agnositc FILL IN THE F****** BLANK) that’s your job, too.
Because we are, all of us, human.
Ben was the Phantom and Ruth ran the sound. Goodness I love my children.
Thank you for your courage, endurance, and hope, Yoryi.
Our stories are similar. And while I continue to hope for change, I do not believe it will happen in the United Methodist Church.
I am finally reaching a place of acceptance. It is happening as I find acceptance outside of the UMC. It grieves me to realize that the ties that bind are loosening for me, mostly for the sake of my children. But by grace they have grown to an age where they are able to make choices of their own, and I have to admit that, when it comes to the Methodist stand on homosexuality, my stubbornness in sticking with it hasn’t done them any favors.
Until that day, when justice shall roll down like waters, and righteous like an ever-flowing stream, I am still waiting. Hope, however, left me years ago. I’m only now admitting it.
He must have run out of baskets.