Crying in Wal-Mart

I'm really not that crazy. I mean, yes, I'm a little bit crazy. But who isn't?

In fact, I'm not even sure crazy is the real issue. So I burst into tears in the middle of a store. What's the big deal?

(Source: Google Images)

For starters I had to go to Wal-Mart. That alone is enough to make a person cry. I typically don't go to Wal-Mart for a number of reasons, including concern for social justice issues and their general business values. Not to mention the overall weirdness of the place. But the other day I needed to go to Wal-Mart for an item I couldn't seem to find anywhere else. I was determined to get in and out as quickly as possible and headed toward my goal item with great intentionality, zipping past dawdling shoppers and short cutting through clothing racks. I got where I needed to be and started to scan the shelves. In a matter of moments a mother and a little girl, somewhere around 3-years old, came into the isle. They interacted sweetly for a bit and then the girl spied something she wanted. She asked for it. Mom said no. She asked again. Mom said no again. They did this for a while before the little girl lost composure and started crying and begging for whatever it was she wanted.  The mother never lost her patience but kept saying no.

That is when my crazy kicked in. I had to leave. Immediately. I had to walk away from their interaction because without warning I started to cry along with the little girl. Fortunately I wasn't wailing the way she was but I had to ground myself emotionally to keep from saying to the young mother, "Buy her what she wants. You don't understand how little time you have left with her. Soon she'll be gone to college and you'll be doing this alone. It goes by so fast." 

Obviously I didn't say that to the woman. For one thing it probably would have frightened her to have a tear-streaked-middle-aged woman she's never seen before telling her what to do with her child. Not to mention she was doing the right thing by not giving in. But my instantaneous reaction to their exchange made one thing clear.

It is time for Anna to come home for a little while.

Nevertheless, I made my way to the checkout trying not to look too off-balance as I attempted to regain my composure. I wanted in line for a near eternity as the cashier examined the fine print of every single coupon provided by the customer in front of me. Every. Single. Coupon. Every word. Every date. Because God forbid Wal-Mart might lose thirty-five cents by honoring an expired coupon. But that's beside the point.

I eventually made my purchase and left the store. By that time I was nearly back to normal but it made me think about why I felt the need to rush out of view because I had been blindsided by my emotions. Does crying because I miss my daughter really make me crazy?

I've always been one who cries easily. My mother made me stop watching Lassie when I was little because she got tired of me crying at the end of every episode. Although, in retrospect, I'm not sure making me watch Alfred Hitchcock was such a great idea.

Anyway, my Wal-Mart experience made me wonder why we, as a culture, are so afraid of tears. Why do we apologize for crying publicly? Assume it is a sign of weakness? And experience embarrassment and discomfort when someone sees us cry?

I think we've got it wrong. I don't think the intensity of missing my daughter when I saw that young mother and her little girl makes me weak or crazy. I don't think my tears indicate some emotional imbalance.

I think it makes me human.

Rather than hide my tears from view, maybe I should have just celebrated what they mean. That I miss the young woman with whom I spent years building a close and intimate relationship. That I recognize the speed with which time goes by and the importance of living intentionally and joyfully. That life is precious and fragile and fleeting.

I'm not saying I'm just going to walk around crying all the time. And I don't feel any compelling need to watch old Lassie TV shows. But if you should see me crying in Wal-Mart, don't assume I'm crazy or imbalanced or just hate Wal-Mart so much it brings me to tears. Just understand.

I'm human.

September 12, a Dog, and Hope

All of us who lived through the horror of September 11th, 2001 feel the collective sadness of that day. Our hearts broke. We felt violated. Angry. Afraid. And, of course, we will all remember the moment when we realized what was happening. Life truly did change as a result of that one day. We still suffer. And we still prevail. We still grieve. And we still overcome.

The work of healing began on September 12th, 2001. Grief, as a process, never ends. It simply evolves. Anniversaries generate healing and pain; both at the same time. At other times, our feelings ebb and flow. The process of grief begins at the realization of loss. On September 11th, we watched in horror and disbelief. On September 12th, we awoke to the reality of what had happened.

On September 12, 2001 we stumbled about in our pain and anger and confusion and tried to figure out how to live. How could we possibly ever feel normal again? Tucked into all that emotion was one simple experience that highlighted the need for normalcy when nothing seemed normal. It provided hope. It didn’t change the world or make the tragedy go away. It didn’t minimize any of the confusion.

It just simply was.

My oldest child, Charles, was nearing 13 at the time, and he was being home schooled. Part of that schooling experience included volunteer work. I felt strongly that giving to others was equally as important as geography or spelling. Even before the events of September 11th, I tried to teach my children that becoming a good citizen of the world is as important as knowing algebra. As part of his schooling, Charles volunteered at the local library one day a week.

His day to volunteer fell on September 12th. Charles had been deeply affected by the events of the previous day. Being a highly intelligent, sensitive, and emotional young man, the terrorist attacks on the United States were equally as devastating to Charles as they had been to any adult. But, since Charles was in the process of crossing that life-bridge from childhood to adulthood, the vulnerability of it all seemed even more pronounced. The loss of innocence was profound.

Charles kept his commitment to volunteer at the library and was assigned to work with the children’s librarian during story time. The focus of story time was a series of books by Norman Bridwell about Clifford the Big Red Dog. The children’s librarian planned to read a few of Bridwell’s books and have Charles dressed in a Clifford the Big Red Dog costume to entertain the children.

Adults lined the wall of the children’s library while their kids heard the stories. The librarian bravely read the stories as enthusiastically as if this were any other September story time. The children listened and then…TA DA…Clifford made his grand appearance. Children jumped and clapped and squealed and ran up to Clifford the Big Red Dog. Charles, as Clifford, engaged each child with a wave or a hug or a high five. The kids were delighted! Their laughter punctuated an otherwise dark day.

One by one, the adults who observed, started to cry. Quietly. Every adult stood by and watched as their child became lost in the joy of being a child.

The children’s joy was so simple. So easy. So natural. Too young to comprehend what had happened the day before, they likely felt some of their parent’s sorrow, even if they were unable to attach meaning to it. But there, on that day when it felt like the entire world had fallen apart, my son donned a hot, red, fuzzy costume and an oversized floppy-eared dog head and brought joy into the lives of a handful of children.

There was hope.

Hope in the librarian who bravely forged ahead with normalcy for the children who needed it. Hope in the adults whose tears fell as they knew life had to go on. Hope in a serious, shy, 12-year old young man who carefully attended to every child in the room even in the midst of his own heartbreak. And hope in a handful of children who still had time to learn love and forgiveness, even as the world would never be the same.