I didn't cry that much. I held it in when I lost my daughter. I remember holding her little body that never took a breath. Days later I dreamed of her. My son ran through the door. It was so bright outside that the sunlight spilled into the small living room of our single wide. There at the door was my little blonde headed daughter, smiling and with such life in her eyes. She waved and went outside to play.
That was a healing dream, I believe. God gave me a chance to see her alive and happy.
When my grandmother died a couple years after, I didn't cry. I was lonely because this was my favorite grandmother, the one who was always there for me and who I spent a lot of time with, be it watching a baseball game or taking her to the doctor. Shortly after, I awoke from sleep (or thought I did) and there she was sitting at the foot of my bed with a deck of cards. She spoke to me (I don't remember what was said) and started dealing the cards to play rummy. God allowed a healing dream and one that gave me one last time with my grandma.
When Jimmy died, I became a widow. Before we married he told me that God would take him home while he was doing something that he loved. He loved being a firefighter. He knew it was his calling. And he was killed in the line of duty. I don't remember days after that, nor weeks. It is all a blur, even today. But I do remember my daddy's hands comforting me throughout the ordeal.
Two months later, my dad died. I couldn't save him. I can't remember exactly what happened. My mind has blocked the memory, but I refused to cry. I had boys to take care of, and my mom to be strong for, so I couldn't allow myself to cry.
For months I dreamed of Jimmy and Daddy. Soon Jimmy said farewell in a dream. I was healed from that heartache. But I never faced my dad's death. Even today, six years later. I can't listen to the song "Daddy's Hand" without breaking down. I still dream of him from time to time.
I've experienced an ectopic pregnancy and lost that child. I miscarried again five months later. I am not able to have another child, and that's a loss to me. I didn't cry. Why should I?, I thought. Then I dreamed, many nights, lots of dreams. I held a baby, I cuddled a baby, I called him John Arno (because that would have been the boy's name), I loved him. Then I would wake up.
God gave me a chance with all these dreams to be able to heal. Sometimes I allowed it. Sometimes I haven't. I still question why He took my father away? Why He didn't allow me to have one more child?
And now this song by Mandisa says it all. His ways are higher, and I may never understand. But I can lean on Him, and maybe someday in the loneliest hour, in solitude, I may allow myself to cry and fully empty my heart out to Him, the One who knows. That day may be today....