Tears In A Bottle – christinelind.com
Many years ago, a dear friend gave me a picture, Victorian style, of a woman reposed on a sofa crying, entitled, “Tears In A Bottle.” The woman is leaning over, her tears dropping one by one into a blue vase. Printed underneath is Psalms 56:8, “You number my wanderings; Put my tears into Your bottle; Are they not in Your book?”
Some women are afraid to cry. I used to be afraid too, until I learned there was nothing to fear. Over the years, I’ve dismantled the dam I built against the mighty rushing waters, otherwise known as tears. I used to think tears were the enemy. Or at least a sign of weakness—or worse yet, that the tears would catapult me over a waterfall into the great abyss.
But tears are restorative, a physiological way to sustain us for short or long trials—a faithful ally, not foe, against illness and maintaining mental health. I used to shamefully cry like a woman of little faith, dry my tears—and then talk to God. Now, I run to show him my tears! And over the years, I have found, for me, that tears are a form of worship.
Crying shows our vulnerability and our need. Our can-do spirit is at a low no-can-do time, and that is when God comes in. Now he has something to work with. Being courageous and stoic is rooted in pagan Greek mythology. When Christians cry to God, we are surrendered. It is also the most genuine posture for prayer and worship. Our tears are significant and something we do between us and God. Like prayer, we take our crying, into our closet.
Of course, our closet means, alone with God. But before I learned that, I literally cried in a real closet. In a broom closet. Among buckets and mops and cleaning supplies. Many years ago, a counselor held my hand and told me to cry out to God in a broom closet where no one could hear me. I needed help to cry because of my stoic and courageous mentality. But it released the beginning of a huge crying time for me that was powerful and healing.
As a child I would rub my eyes with ice cubes so no one knew I’d been crying. But the broom closet worked. Even though I felt a bit like Bill Murray in “What About Bob,” receiving a new mode of therapy—it broke the dam, and I’ve been crying ever since. It’s very rare that I need to cry to someone these days, but I still cry—and when I do, I cry to the one who records it in a bottle.
