Men cry.

For whatever the reason, it seems men are often averse to tears. From the time we are in elementary school, there seems to be a stigma around sadness when it comes to men.  Not the act of being sad per se, but the emotion with which it presents itself to the outside world.  I’ve heard it many times.  Men don’t cry. I believe that, innately, all boys want to be seen as tough. They want to be seen as brave, unfazed, and hard-edged.  Now, in recent years, the West’s cultural and societal pressures have sought to destroy this  (all in an attempt to emasculate men) but that is a topic for another time. I’m not saying I’m advocating for men driven by emotion, but I think tears play a role in making men the leaders and providers they need to be. And, maybe, every once in a while, it is worth showing.  Men cry.

As I began thinking about it, I realized I’ve only seen my daddy cry two times in my entire life.  I know he’s cried more than just those two times, and already I can foresee events that will bring tears to his eyes, but, as it stands in this current moment, I’ve only seen him cry twice.  Both times are forever etched into my brain, and for good reason.  It may seem odd to say it, but the memories attached to those two moments in my life, although painful, are integral to who I’ve become today.  I don’t think the impact would have been the same, had Daddy not cried.

You see, Howell men have always been very conscious about the image we present to the world. Not just in the outer world, but even in our own family.  For somewhat off-the-wall examples, my mother has never seen my father without his mustache.  Also, I never saw any videos of my father as a child, even though they did exist.  And it’s not just me. Dad has told me many times he received handshakes from his father when he was a child.  Grandaddy maintained the image of the authority and disciplinarian of the house.  He wasn’t handing out many hugs and “I love yous”.  I’m proud to say my siblings and I worked on my Grandaddy about that through the years (and it’s no longer an issue 😁) but it was at one time. 

Grandma has told me many times there was a side to my Grandaddy that she didn’t know until they tied the knot.  Mama the same with Daddy.  It was not a situation of abusive or foul behavior.  Rather, some quirks weren’t immediately recognizable throughout the dating relationship.  One of these is the Howell brow.  It’s the furrowed brow that appears on our faces as we brood. All of us men have it to varying degrees.  We don’t tend towards explosive behavior, but ask any of the Howell women and they can assure you that we brood. We clam up and close up when something is bothering us and we mentally fixate on it until it makes us positively miserable.  ‘Tis the Howell way.

As one can probably surmise, this doesn’t mix well with tears.  It’s hard to maintain a stern, brooding demeanor when you blubber, so we don’t blubber. We don’t talk either, for the risk of our words being misconstrued or unwarranted.  I learned this from my father.  It drives my mother somewhat crazy at times, but I see the wisdom in it. When one is in a brood, one doesn’t talk. If he were to speak, his altered mental state may encourage him to say something he otherwise wouldn’t.  In other words, keeping your mouth shut when you’re unhappy helps prevent you from sticking your foot in it and saying something in sarcasm or anger. Seeing these rules broken is a rare thing.

As I said earlier, I’ve only seen it two times. Both have drastically shaped who I am today, both in how I view my father and myself, so I figured I’d put it down in words.

The first time.

The first time, I was a teenager and I got into a nasty fight with my brother.  I have trouble remembering what exactly it started over, but it was vicious.  I want to say he had done something to aggravate me, and I’d hidden something he wanted, like a game controller or phone or something, as payback.  All very childish of course. My brother and I complement each other nicely in that I throw blows with my words and he throws blows with fists. He is the stronger of us two, while I’m the more articulate. This always made for awful spats, for I would raze him and demean him with a quick tongue, he’d see red, and he would follow up with a chokehold.  

Now… this wasn’t too bad when we were younger children, but, as we became teenagers it became more serious.  To make a long story short, I goaded him and he went for it. During his “seeing red” phase, I ended up in the aforementioned chokehold on the floor.  Only this time, my sister was crying and my mother was screaming and beating on him uselessly, trying to get him off of me before I passed out. When he finally got off of me, I was lying on the floor gasping, my sister ran off to her room and locked the door, still crying, and my mother dropped everything, got in her car, and left, too angry to even look at me and my brother. Rightfully so.

Mama stayed gone for an hour or two. The tension mounted. Later that night, my father came home.  He didn’t speak to either of us. Howell brow remember?  My brother and I had the same by that point.  The following day, around lunch, Daddy speaks his first words.  Tells us to sit on the couch, side by side. He pulls up a chair and sits directly in front of us, hands on his knees, leaning in.  I don’t remember his exact words, but I remember his face and his voice. His voice was so quiet. So low.  He asked why. Why would we do something like that to each other? What could bring two brothers to such a place of hate and anger? Then he asked how. How could we do something like that to him and Mama? She had called him, crying about how she had lost control.  We didn’t respond to her words, and she physically couldn’t break us apart during our fight, and I think the realization of that had scared her and jarred her to the point where she had to leave. 

Then he paused. I don’t know what Daddy saw in his mind’s eye, but I saw in the silence that followed the how question that he was miles away.   I imagine he was seeing some scene of domestic abuse he’d happened upon during his years in the police force, or perhaps he was seeing my brother and me as tiny innocent children years before.  Whatever it was, the thought drew a tear from his eye. Then another. Then another. Soon, they were streaming down his face.  He looked at us and told us “never again.”  To this day, I don’t know entirely what that meant, but I’ll never find out.  My brother and I haven’t laid hands on each other since that day, and I made a personal promise to myself that I never will.  

Daddy cried and things changed.

The second time.

The second time, I was an adult. I had been off on my own, living in Charleston for a few months, when I got the call from my father that my Papa had died in a car crash. He didn’t even cry then on the phone.  He was compartmentalized and all business. In the week that followed, he never publicly broke.  I cried. Mama cried. My brother cried.  My sister cried.  Not Daddy. At least not out in the open.

The day of the funeral came.  I hated it.  Spring Branch Baptist Church in Nichols, SC.  The only time I’d ever been was with Papa to see where he’d grown up.  Those had all been years ago on summer day trips. Now, it was ice cold in March.  It was graveside only, and we got to the church early.  I helped my father and brother and a few other men lift Papa’s casket out of the hearse to set over the grave.  No tears.  Papa had asked that Dad perform the service. So Dad did.  He sang “It is Well” with my uncle, and then “Beulah Land” by himself.  For reference, he held a scrap of paper I had found in one of Papa’s old Bibles in my apartment.  Papa had scrawled the lyrics to the entire “Beulah Land” song on it, all jumbled and jammed up on that tiny sheet of paper.  Like everyone else there I cried during that song.  Dad’s voice didn’t even crack.  I was convinced he was invincible. 

When the service came to a close, and everybody turned to console each other (as they do at these things), I watched him. He neatly stacked his notes and slid them into the cover of Papa’s Bible, which he’d performed the service with. Then, he walked over to the casket, alone.  He laid his hand on it and bowed his head.  At first, I thought he was praying, and then his shoulders began to shake violently. You see, up until that moment, he’d had an obligation and a duty to perform.  He was keeping it together for us and the family. He was honoring Papa as Papa had asked of him at that time.  However, when he finally bowed his head over the casket, he was freed from that duty, so the tears came in a flood.  I further defined at that moment the kind of man I wanted to become.  A pillar in his extended family.  A son who is valued and loved by his in-laws. A man who doesn’t seek to draw attention to himself.   A man who is willing to put aside his own hurt until he has attempted to assuage the hurt of others.

Daddy cried and things changed.

My Father’s tears.

I don’t like to cry.  It’ll never make a Top 10 list of mine. But I never want to become so hardened that tears won’t flow.  I want to be like my father. I want my tears to convey the desire I have for people to do right.  I want my tears to convey the love I have for people.  I want my tears, if for no other reason than to remind me of the day when God will wipe them away from my eyes.  To remind me that one day I’ll cry for the last time.  When that day comes, I know I’ll live in peace and joy with my Lord for the rest of eternity.

And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.

Revelation 21:4

What’s the point Sam? Tears show that you care.  Tears show that you feel.  Tears show that you have a sense of right and wrong.  Tears show that you have a desire to love and a desire to be loved. My father’s tears, though few in my mind, have molded me into who I am today.

My Savior’s tears.

There’s another man’s tears that molded me as well. Were it not for the tears of Jesus, I wouldn’t be where I am today.

Jesus wept.

John 11:35

In John 11, we see that Lazarus, the brother of Martha and Mary, has died.  We know that Jesus was fully God and fully man, and this passage of Scripture perfectly epitomizes that.  We see he mourns the loss of a loved one (as a man), and then proceeds to raise Lazarus from the dead (as God).

And when he was come near, he beheld the city, and wept over it

Luke 19:41

Jesus cried over the loss of innocence and the wickedness that abounded in Jerusalem. He cried over a people who’d satiated their thirst for meaning with broken cisterns and sinful desires.  He foretold the misfortune that would befall them as a result.  Looking upon the city, he wept, for he knew one day the judgment of God would fall and it would be razed to the ground.  As we see from history, it was. In 70 AD, Titus and the Romans destroyed Jerusalem, just as Jesus had said.

7 Who in the days of his flesh, when he had offered up prayers and supplications with strong crying and tears unto him that was able to save him from death, and was heard in that he feared; 

8Though he were a Son, yet learned he obedience by the things which he suffered;

9 And being made perfect, he became the author of eternal salvation unto all them that obey him;

Hebrews 5:7-9

Jesus cried over you and me.  He cried for the pain that he would have to endure for you and me.  There was a part of Him that didn’t want to go to the cross at Calvary.  He didn’t want the spit on his face.  He didn’t want the skin ripped from his back.  He didn’t want thorns pressed into his scalp. He didn’t want the punches and the kicks and the bruises.  He didn’t want the nails in his hands and his feet.  So he cried.  In Matthew 26:36, we see He even asked the Lord to let the cup pass from him.  He wanted another way, but He went anyway.

Looking at Job, we can see what Satan was allowed to do with a simple, just, man.  He took everything away from Job except the breath in his lungs.  At Satan’s behest, Job’s children were killed,  his livelihood was destroyed beyond all hope of repair, and his body was covered in sores.  Keep in mind. Job was nothing more than a regular human trying to follow the will of God.  

Now imagine the pain that Satan attempted to inflict on the Son of God when given the opportunity. When Jesus cried on the cross, “Eloi, Eloi, Lamma Sabachthani” (meaning “My God, My God, why has thou forsaken me?”) we know that Jesus was in a state of separation from his Father.  In a way, He was an open target.  Though oft-overlooked, it is true that we all reside in a spiritual warzone. There is a plane of existence that we, as humanity, don’t fully operate in, but it is as real as the earth beneath your feet.  Battles for hearts, minds, and souls take place daily.  Spiritual beings fight each other, as we see in Revelation 12:7.  One would be errant and foolish to believe spiritual battles were not being fought on Golgotha the day Jesus was crucified.

So Jesus cried.  For you. For me. For humanity. His tears are a reminder that He went all the way to care for us. He cried over the death of Lazarus, He cried over the fate of Jerusalem, and He cried over the sacrifice He bore for you and me.  He was fully God and fully Man. Men cry.