Tears from the Pulpit and Other Awkward and Embarrassing Moments

If you were in my church this past Sunday, you had the unfortunate honor of seeing me break down and cry before, during and after praying from the pulpit. For those of you who were not present, let me explain. In our congregation, the Morning Prayer (also known as the Congregational Prayer or Pastoral Prayer) usually follows the "Songs of Praise and Worship." This past Sunday was no exception. We sang three songs and I made it through the first two without too much difficulty. Our third song, "I Love You, Lord," happened to be one of many on my mental list of songs I planned to sing to our baby. I had completely forgotten about that list until the song started, and I lost it. I never even got one word or note of the song out. I just stood there and cried. I tried really hard to shut out the song and regain my composure. It just didn't happen. I suppose I can be proud that I made it the whole way through my prayer without stopping, but it was ugly. My voice was cracking, and there were times when I could barely read what I had written. The best thing anyone can say is that I survived and the congregation survived. I usually enjoy participating in the service in this way, but I think it might be a while before I am brave enough to try again. Tears may be healing, but that doesn't stop "crying in the pulpit" from getting added to the list of embarrassing moments I've had over the last four weeks! Here's a few more:

• Being rude to someone I ran into in the grocery store and knowing I was being rude even as I did it because I simply didn't have the energy to explain that we'd just lost our daughter. (She was very gracious when my mother-in-law apologized for me a couple weeks later.)
• Crying in coffee shops. Coffee shops are a great place to meet people to talk, but when the topic of conversation is something emotional like losing a child, it can be a bit uncomfortable for everyone. (Suggestions of better places to meet for these conversations would be appreciated! These are good conversations which I plan to continue even if they have to be in public places.)
• Explaining to the plumber who put in our new furnace a few weeks ago and returned to fix our leaky shower that I no longer have a due date, that my daughter arrived three weeks ago with no heartbeat. These conversations are not so much embarrassing as they are awkward. The person who asked always feels horrible for asking, and I have yet to find a way of making that moment less awkward or helping the other person feel better about asking! (By the way, that plumber did not fix the leaky shower and has not been back to try again. We've called and are still waiting. Not sure how I feel about that, but I'm hoping it doesn't have anything to do with the awkwardness of our last conversation. Shout out to my father-in-law who put a cap on the end of the pipe so that the leak is temporarily solved!!)

In spite of the embarrassing nature of crying in public places, I am incredibly grateful for the community of other mothers who have lost their daughters. Don't get me wrong! This is one club in which I would rather not be a member, but it is surprising good to talk to, cry with, and get to know other women who have lost their children and in particular their daughters. I spent my entire morning today with a woman who lost her daughter a few months ago, and I feel so blessed by our time together. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it was not what I ended up getting!

I hope that this doesn't burst your bubble, but pastors are human. We don't always know the right thing to say. We don't have this sense of "divine confidence" that allows us to walk into situations without fear or anxiety. We are human. We get nervous. We question our own abilities. We sometimes put our foot in our mouth.

I was nervous going into my meeting this morning. I am a control freak who likes to know the outcome of conversations before she has them. It has been hard for me to put myself out there without having expectations for a conversation, and I have gone into more than one conversation in the last four weeks dreading the outcome because I simply didn't know what to expect. I had no idea that I would leave the coffee shop this morning feeling so hopeful and so happy. I laughed. I cried. I talked. I listened. I feel like I found a kindred spirit, another grieving soul who tries to live every day with hope, who chooses to see the light at the end of the tunnel even when it's hard. I have been blessed, and I am learning that good grieving is grieving with hope. May you find light and hope and promise no matter what you face today, tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after, and may we all find ways to "grieve good."