"She Cries Easy"

A classmate once said to our substitute teacher, "Don’t talk to her like that--she cries easy."

We were tenth graders at the high school located in the southern most portion of Georgia off Interstate 75. The one with the huge football stadium. But Charlie Williams, III, and I had been schoolmates since third grade. Tall, and with big kind eyes, Charlie was one of the first African-American children to enter our elementary school in the late 1960's.

That day in tenth grade, I returned from lunch greeted by a closed door and then a grump whose watch ran fast. But, when the class erupted with laughter, her scowl relented. She allowed me, along with the others who had lagged behind, to take our seats without reporting to the office.

It warmed my heart that Charlie would take up for me, but I figured he had me confused with another girl. She sat by me and cried every day. But now, I realize he had only expressed what most folks already knew: Becky is too sensitive.

No doubt he had been among the masses who witnessed the day my first high-school boyfriend dumped me. Tears came much too easy; they escalated into one of those sick headaches that show up uninvited. While outside the east wing of the bricked schoolhouse, my breakfast ejected in a most unladylike fashion

Only one other time in high school did tears almost make me sick. That fall, my next boyfriend left for college. He promised to write, but by November, his letters screeched to a halt. Information circulated like wildfire that he suffered no cramps when writing to everyone else; even worse--his best friend had read my letters. When I learned this, the best friend stood right next to me. I didn’t take it well. But, I did hold tight to my breakfast.

Long before the woes of high school, I would overhear grown-ups discussing my being sensitive. They spoke in hushed tones. It seemed strange that they were talking about me--I rarely cried. As a child I learned that bursting into tears at every disappointment would make others think me spoiled. No spoiled children lived at our house--Daddy said so. He held fast to the philosophy that you can’t spoil a baby by loving it.

Indeed, I was loved. Yet, even without tears, my feelings have always run mighty deep.

Time passes even in the smallest corners of the deep south. At the close of a women’s retreat during my thirty-fifth year, one of the leaders said to me, "Your sensitivity is a gift."

Smiling with gratitude, I wondered why she had noticed me. I had not been a speaker nor shed one tear during the entirety of the weekend. But, I returned home with a spring in my step. No one had ever told me that God made me sensitive on purpose.

Since then, I have pondered my gift perpetually. I’ve learned it’s not a license to wear hurt feelings like a Medal of Honor. Taking offense requires no talent. The Old Testament writer warns that an offended person is harder to win than a strong city and commends those who overlook an offense. (Proverbs 18:19; 19:11)

Yet, there are still some things that offend me or at least wear down my nerves: a whiner is one; a gossip posing as a prayer warrior is another; a bully in any form, but especially one who lays on a car horn, is my chief dislike. I’m learning, though, to see those things as tiresome--not offensive. Fatigue is easily remedied; a catnap works wonders.

Nor does my being sensitive exempt me from difficult tasks simply because they might be upsetting. Funerals are just such tasks. And, bless my heart, there seems no escaping them. So, I seek ways to be present at funerals without over-identifying with the bereaved. It’s a challenge. I’m still learning

My co-worker, John, and I sometimes talk about the loved ones we have buried. During the course of our employment, several of my dearest have died. But, John’s loss is the greater; he has buried a son.

John gave me a prayer card penned with the words of St. Francis of Assisi:

"Lord, make me an instrument of your peace;
where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light; and
where there is sadness, joy.
O Divine Master, grant that I may not so seek to be
consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand,
to be loved as to love; for it is in giving that we receive;
in pardoning that we are pardoned, and
in dying that we are born to eternal life."

The card is framed--it stays at my desk. It reminds me that God made me sensitive on purpose for the sake of others. And, to better recognize my own need for God. Truly, it’s the greatest need I have.

A true wonder is that my last high school boyfriend still likes me. He is quite handy. He keeps me from taking myself too seriously. Not long after we celebrated our Silver Wedding Anniversary, we saw Charlie Williams, III pumping gas at some of the southern most pumps off Interstate 75. We pumped right along side him. And, laughed at how the years have left their marks.

I noticed, though, Charlie is still tall. And, his eyes are still big and kind. All the better for spotting those who cry easy.

Good job, Charlie--don’t think I ever said thanks.