Worthy of Tears

I wrote this when examining my own heart regarding my Christianity. Am I just like so many hypocrites in this world? Or do I live my faith? God views the smallest and the most insignificant of us as priceless. But, do I?

• Spirituality & New Age
• Religion

								
I have come to understand that, in this life, some tears come as if they are programmed, while others come hard. Certain of them, we are almost afraid to cry. Or should I say ashamed to cry? Some things in our lives don’t seem worth crying over. Recently, however, I realized to my dismay that we often have that same attitude toward people: some are worth our tears, others are not. And I am not sure how I feel about that. I know it isn’t right. I know that it’s certainly not Christlike. I also know I’ve been guilty of it, like virtually everyone else. So, whose lives matter? To Jesus, they all do. For us, that is not always the case.

This study in tears didn’t begin out of the clear blue. It began like everything else does in this life: with a thought. When a neighbor told us Bruce was dead, I shamefully admit now that I didn’t have much of a reaction, if any. He was nothing more than an added aggravation in my already busy life. He was a handyman for the HOA in the development where we lived, but he also had a fondness for passing his time peeping in bedroom windows. So perhaps it doesn’t surprise you that I had no great fondness for him. The first time I spoke to him personally was when, against our better judgment, we hired him on the side to build a closet in one of our rooms. Once I saw the finished work, I believe my comment was a very uncharitable, “Well, evidently he’s not playing with a full deck.” Then, I went on to make it clear to him what needed to be fixed regarding the closet job.

The next instance was when a neighbor came over to tell us she reported Bruce, a second time, to the management company of our housing complex because he was, “at it again.” Meaning, of course, walking around with his trusty ladder trying to figure out which bedroom window would give him the best show that night. When I saw Bruce, I engaged in the typical tirade that I suppose isn’t so odd for any woman encountering a peeping Tom. Or in this case a peeping Bruce. I don’t remember exactly what I said to him, but I can assure you it was not what Jesus would have said.

One thing I remember with curiosity is how I commented to my husband about the fact that everywhere Bruce went, his cat went with him. If he was painting a porch, the cat would be a few feet away purring in the sun. If he was grilling trout in front of the tiny, ancient trailer he lived in just off the property, the cat was not far away. Once, when I was particularly annoyed with Bruce and the management for giving him, “too many chances,” I remarked to my husband that I was amazed the cat had lived into adulthood with only Bruce to take care of it. I now realize he probably took excellent care of his feline friend, because it was the only thing on this earth he loved, and from what I remember, looking back in hindsight, almost certainly the only one who loved Bruce.

Bruce killed himself one night out in the woods behind the complex. A 13-year-old boy on a bicycle found him. He had broken into the office and stolen some type of rope and hanged himself. 

I shamefully admit now that the first thought I had was, “Well, that’s sad, but no more peeping Bruce to worry about.” I was immediately disgusted with myself. 

For obvious reasons, no, I didn’t want him looking in my bedroom window, but if I knew he was going to try to kill himself, I certainly would have done everything in my power to stop him.

A few weeks later I was sitting on my front deck watching the traffic flood into Myrtle Beach for vacation, and I suddenly pictured Bruce and his cat traipsing through the grass to do some odd job or other, and I found myself wondering what became of the cat. It was then that it finally dawned on me that his life was over. He couldn’t have been older than 30 when he made that decision that could never be undone. There would be no second chance for Bruce.

Admittedly, he was not a model citizen. Probably in some ways he was not even what you would call a “productive member of society.” But he was a living person who Jesus died for. And I’m sure deep down, Bruce didn’t want to kill himself.

Then I began to think about how we all come into this world.

With the exception of extenuating circumstances, it’s essentially the same for everyone: we leave our mother’s womb and are laid in her arms. 

What goes so horribly wrong after that?

Who rocked Bruce when he was a baby?
Who read him bedtime stories?
Who helped him with his homework?
Why did he end up living in a dilapidated trailer with only a cat to love and nobody to care if he lived or died?
Why didn’t I or anyone else witness to him about Jesus instead of just focusing on his faults?
And why were there no tears cried for his life? He wasn’t worthy of them?
He was certainly worthy in Jesus eyes because if Bruce had been the only man on earth, Jesus would have gone to the cross for him.
I’m crying tears for his life, now. Too few and too late, but I am.  
I have no idea what his religious background was. Because I never bothered to ask.
But I know that Jesus has mercy on those to whom the world shows no mercy.
So, I hope I will see Bruce in Heaven one day.
Those were my thoughts as I watched the masses of cars speeding into Myrtle Beach for their summer vacation. 
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