I Don’t Cry at Funerals

I don’t cry at funerals.

While everyone else is grabbing their tissues and their waterproof mascara, I don’t even bother. Why? I don’t cry at funerals.

When my grandmother passed away, I read a two-page long tribute to her in front of everyone at the funeral. When I was finished, there wasn’t a dry eye there. Except mine. Because I don’t cry at funerals.

I used to really worry about this. Was I broken? Why couldn’t I cry along with everyone else? It’s not that I don’t cry. I stub my toe and cry. I can hear a moving prayer and start crying. Sometimes I’m even embarrassed by tearing up in public. So why couldn’t I cry when you are supposed to cry?

Today, for the first time, I attended the funeral of a teenager. A family friend, she left us far too soon. I’d cried when I heard the news, but not at the youth group meeting, where the crying was supposed to happen. Instead, I helped test portable speakers for the funeral the next day

Today, as I got ready, my family asked if I was bringing a purse full of tissues.

“Nope,” I answered. “I’m not going to cry.”

The funeral was moving and sad. Many people hugged and cried. I helped set up the speaker and watched the kids.

When the service was over, the family asked those present to sign the casket. I’d been put in charge of distributing the Sharpies. As everyone filed by, I spoke to the grieving. I hugged the crying. And I smiled and laughed with the toddler of the girl who died, as she got yet another Sharpie to “color more pictures for mom.”

I handed Sharpies to more crying people. More than once, I was mistaken for someone who worked for the funeral home, and was asked to take care of details or provide more programs. I did what I could.

We stayed. Never before had I stayed to the end of a funeral. As they buried the casket, I stood with the women and hugged them.

“We mourn,” said one of my friends. “But not as those who have no hope.”

I nodded. But I didn’t cry.

Finally we left. I went to work. After work, I could feel the emotion of the day filling me. A migraine inched its way into my head. But we had to go to the doctor for a routine appointment.

“How are you today?” the doctor cheerfully asked.

We gave him a summation of the day’s events.

“It’s hard when I’m around all these people,” my husband said. “I feel their pain.”

“That’s easy,” said the doctor. “That’s not your load to carry. It’s impossible for you to do it. You might as well get used to it. But my Boss is there for you. He will help you carry that load. What’s the most important part of a barn?”

“The doors?” we guessed.

“No,” he replied. “The empty space inside. We are his vessels. We carry the pain of others. But we must also empty ourselves, so that we can have room to let the good things in as well. Give the pain to the Father. He can carry it for you.”

We drove home. I tried to do some chores around the house. My head pounded.

I got in my car and left. I drove back by the cemetery. I sat down next to the grave and cried. I cried for the life not lived. I cried for the toddler that was motherless at such a young age. I cried for the hurting and the broken. I emptied myself of all the pain and anguish I’d carried.

My headache left. I was still sad, but no longer shaking. I walked around the cemetery, visiting the graves of others I had lost. The first dear friend I lost was buried there too, so I stopped by her grave. I realized that in time, this fresh grief will fade as well.

I cried some more. I cried until I was empty.

And I felt at peace.

I’m still not sure why I don’t cry at funerals. Maybe it’s so I can be strong for others. Maybe it’s so I can take care of the details. Maybe it’s the purpose the Father has for this vessel of mine.

In any case, if this is your story too, next time we’re at a funeral, meet me at the cemetery two hours later.

And we’ll cry.