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Reflections: Moved to Tears

Finding meaning in the experiences that make us cry

Childen's voices soared above me in a grand Fifth Avenue church, and I was grateful I had my husband’s hand to squeeze. The girls’ choir sang familiar hymns, songs I’ve mouthed the words to hundreds of times, but there was something in their voices that seemed, almost, to take flight.They moved me out of that crowded, hard-backed pew and into that place where God dwells inside me. Tears pooled, salty water mingling with the mascara I’d so meticulously applied just an hour before. This time I would let them come.For a long time I’ve lived in that moment of deciding, ashamed by my propensity for tears. I’ve been what my girlfriends and I call “an easy crier” my whole life. As a child I remember sitting at the foot of my parents’ queen-size bed, wiping tears away as my mother read Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree aloud, then tearing up for days at the thought of it.In middle school I became so overwhelmed that once I had to leave a Girl Scout badge ceremony. I wasn’t even a Girl Scout; I was simply proud of my friends. I cried on every last day of school and during every Hallmark movie. I teared up as I …

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