Gretchen (Danysh) Crowder ‘02, ’04 M.Ed

After an epic display of tears from each of our kids upon receiving their annual flu shot, I decided they should witness their parents endure the same suffering. After all, we were all in it together. On the way, my oldest son asked me “Mommy, will you cry?” Instantly, I replied, “No, son, not for the flu shot.” He thought a little before he asked, “Then, mommy, what makes you cry?”

This question flustered me. For years I have tried to make sure I didn’t cry—that I was strong for everyone around me. I held back tears at my grandfather’s funeral so I could speak about him to the crowd. I took deep breaths upon learning of my son’s hearing loss so the tears would remain locked inside. I pushed through the sorrow as we lost two students at my school last year. People needed me, I reasoned. People needed me to be strong. However, reflecting now on the words of this reading, I am struck by another potential reason why I try so hard not to cry. Perhaps, like James and John, I want to numb myself to suffering until I can reach the glory ahead. 

Emotional moments like these pass. People move on, happiness comes, joy returns. Maybe that’s what James and John were seeking so desperately. I think they wanted to skip the vulnerability that would come with the passion and death of their friend and go straight to the joy that comes with resurrection. Jesus, however, did not get to skip over the pain and hurt. Suffering was an essential part of his work of salvation.

“Mommy, what makes you cry?”—an astute question for a five-year-old. In that moment, I could see Jesus standing there with my son asking, “Will you cry for me?”