On Tears

At least a few times a week I hear this: "Max, are you crying?," and I say, "No, I'm not, my eyes are just tearing up." They always do it at random times, too - today, I was eating a plate of bowtie pasta and parmesan cheese when tears started to run down my cheeks. Sometimes, it will happen during regular conversations, and people think that they've said something really offensive or personal. As a matter of fact, they're starting to run right now.

The irony of this is that when I really want to just fall into the arms of Christ and cry, the tears don't come nearly as easily. It makes me think that I've got some wires crossed somewhere up in my brain, holding back the tears when I'm sad and letting 'em loose while I'm eating dinner. Or maybe I have some wires crossed in my heart, rejoicing while others mourn and mourning when I should be rejoicing. When someone collapses into my arms because their mother has passed away or when I hear that every 8 seconds someone dies in Africa from a treatable water-borne illness, I pray to God for a soft heart and a river of tears. Sometimes, the tears do come, but many times, they don't. No matter how hard I pull at my heartstrings, I won't get even a drop. Just me, all alone. Later, they run down my cheeks over dinner, taunting me. I can almost hear them say "we'll come back when you're ready to cry," as they fall down my cheeks.

This narrow, straight road that us Christians have been walking on isn't a cakewalk; I sometimes wonder what would happen if Christ answered my prayer, and my heart broke for all of the hate and pain in this world, all the time. Would I scream with agony? Would I fall to my knees and pray? Would I sweat blood?

I guess I'd just have to cry.