When I Cry in Church

For the eight years that Larry and I served as co-pastors, I was unaware of one constant behavior. Whenever I was preaching (which was 60% of the time), he sat behind me, and at some point in my sermon, tears would stream down his face. It wasn’t that I was a terrible preacher, it was because he had a sensitive soul, a kind heart, and loved me absolutely. The congregation may have been listening to my words, but they were also watching Larry’s face, and were moved by his tears.

In the two and a half years after my retirement, we sat side by side, holding hands during the morning prayer. Often our tears would fall simultaneously, out of fear and frustration, impatience and hopelessness on my part. For Larry, I believe the tears came out of his constant faith and deep desire to be well.

These days, when I exercise the choice to be in church, I go because I know the preaching will be good, there will be a word from God I need to hear, and I will be inspired and encouraged for the work ahead of us in this world. I go, strong and secure in my understanding that Larry’s death was not a tragedy in my life, but the inevitable outcome of his illness, and the inevitable ending for all life. My grieving is not finished, and never will be, but it has lessened.

Last Sunday the tears began as I realized I was seated in front of a man who was too weak to stand for the hymns, just as Larry had been. I moved over so that he could see the words on the screen. 

My tears resumed during the gathering of prayer concerns, congratulating the couple celebrating sixty years of marriage. We never made it to 35. The year we married Easter was April 3. Our wedding the Saturday after. 

As prayers were gathered into the eloquent and passionate words of Pastor Ruth Marston, I wiped my eyes because there was no one’s hand to hold.

Mid sermon, my tears flowed as I listened to Pastor Peter Perry capture the essence of Larry’s theology, his deep understanding and appreciation of John Wesley’s teaching on a life of grace, epitomizing who Larry was as a grace and peace-filled human being.

By the time the service ended I was exhausted in my role as a brave, stoic widow, surrounded by other widows in their 80’s and 90’s. I do not want to face that future. What was my life is no more.

The day before, when I went for my manicure, I had removed my wedding band. It has often attracted attention and started conversations. We would tell how we designed them and had them custom made, mine with a raised butterfly, Larry’s with the matching shape engraved. The band is wide. It has left an indentation.

With the rooms in my house transformed into distinctively personal, practical, comfortable, shadow free areas, cleared of physical reminders of Larry’s illness, I breathe new life every morning. My body, my hand, my heart, and yes, my tears carry all the memories I need.