Friday, July 12, 2013


Let me get this straight.  I am not a crier.  Ask my family.  Ask my friends. Hubby is the designated crier in our family.  Commercials, movies, news reports, sermons, the sight of his grandchildren, a low balance on our Discover card, you name it - he cries.
Not me.
Nope, hard hearted Hannah this girl.  Years of callous built up on this heart and I can stare down a bully at 2 feet and win.
Lately, I have found a bit of Crying Karma visiting my squishy heart these days.
Lately, I have been known to excuse myself rather than be caught up in the throes of a heavy duty cry.
Why is this?
Hormonal imbalance?  Overdose of real life? 
Who knows.  But I do know that it has knocked me on my keister.  Having no governor on my previous reigned in emotions has made me vulnerable to all sorts of breakdowns of late.

 Hear me clear: I am not sad.  I am not overwhelmed in a negative way necessarily but I am moved to a point lately that I cannot contain all the emotions welling up within me even with my iron will constitution still firmly in place.
 I blame it on grandchildren.
Yep.  That is the start of it and I'm pretty sure the undoing of this previously very controlled lady.

 And it's not just the grandchildren that is the root of all this emotion.  It's their blamed parents.
It is the progeny, the fruit of my loins that has me all in a dither.
It is the realization that these people, that formerly lived in my home 24/7, not to mention my womb for nine months, that has me over the top.

 You pray, you hope, you research, you read, you cajole, you threaten, you yell, you cry (well, some do), you cross your metaphorically speaking fingers and hope to the Dear Lord that  you did something right.

And then, and then, they have children.  They become these people that you love to visit.  These people that make you laugh, make you proud, make you glad that you gave birth to them.  These people are highly functioning, amazingly friendly, witty beyond belief, servants of God.  And it truly has nothing to do with me.

Your children have children.  You visit when it is acceptable for it is not about you.  Never has been.  You watch their family dynamic.  You quietly work around, tiptoeing, not really wanting to disturb the magic that you are observing.  You want to be a fly on the wall but in a helpful way.  You wish that your lackluster memory could contain all the images that you are soaking in:  Daddy comes home from work.  You know that he has worked long and hard and has to be bushed after not getting much sleep because of a newborns sleep habits.  You see his tired face come into the door and in the background you hear this high pitched little voice run toward her daddy enthusiastically,  'Daddy's home! Daddy's home!, arms reaching up. The previously weary employee magically alters into the super hero his little daughter thinks he is. He brightens, and when asked, 'Daddy, you play with me?' agrees to joining her little gathering of stuffed animals and proceeds to voice each little fuzzy buddy with a hilarity that makes me laugh out loud.  Magical stuff.  And this has been  repeated in each of the babymoons that I have participated in with my three producing (so far) children.

Hence the tears.

I am a peripheral observer in these homes.  Sure, I have a place in their hearts.  Sure, I have served my time as their priority, as it should be. My time with them as influence and advisor is over. And they are doing  quite well without my daily input, thank you very much. They have lives and circles of friends and futures in continuing generations.  When Maddox, the little angel I just spent time with, is a mere 20 years old, I shall, Lord Willing, be 80 years old.  Reality Check.  I am quite alright with the fact that I am mortal.  I am quite alright with the idea that my prime has passed and that I shall be peripheral in most things from henceforth.
But the overwhelming emotion I feel when I see, I feel, the amazing joy, in the result of the hopefulness many years ago, well, it gushes out into submissive sobbing at the goodness of our God and how He works.  He took a crazily dysfunctional girl, placed her in the life of just the right boy and what comes forth, can only be credited to our Lord.

I weep for the joy, I weep for the heartache that young people face while raising families, I weep for the pain of challenging situations that only make you stronger but painful to watch.  I weep for all the joys ahead of them; some of them with me in the picture, some of them not.  I weep for their futures, for the depth of the love that they will experience as they add years to their marriages and as they watch their own children please them in the way that they have over the top pleased me.

I weep in my humanity and in God's goodness...

To God be the Glory and He will dry my abundant tears in due time...

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