church

As the worship music swelled, my eyes filled with tears. It wasn’t the first time I’d cried in church since my husband died; I was a pro by now. I knew exactly what to do. Look up at the ceiling to keep the tears pooled in my eyes. Smile and take a deep breath to keep them from dribbling down my face. And, at all costs, don’t make eye contact. Don’t let the grief get out of hand. Before Rob’s death, I’d cried from time to time in church when I was overcome with the beauty of God, when a Scripture passage touched my heart, or when I recalled afresh the precious treasure of the gospel. They’d always been happy tears. Nothing to be ashamed of. Worthy of being shared, like joyful tears at a wedding or birthday celebration. These tears, though? They were borne of agonizing sorrow and dark grief...