One Single Tear

My mother had two sisters.
One never married.
She was a professional woman her entire life; a legal secretary.
Though she never married, she was engaged, twice.

As I got older, I asked her about why she never married either of those men.
They were wonderful men, but I could never imagine spending my whole life with them.
The love was just not there.
She believed in the sanctity of marriage too much to enter it haphazardly.

She had a full life with many friends.
She worked tirelessly for the protection of the unborn.
She was a cartoonist at heart, sending one of her ideas to a famous syndicated cartoonist.
He wrote a personal hand-written letter praising her talent and wit.

She had an amazing voice and with her two sisters could harmonize beautifully.
What a gift to grow up in a house filled with music.
She was opinionated and outspoken at times.
I watched her and gleaned from her.

Any time I write a letter or send an email to a state representative, I think of her.
Every time I pray for the unborn and for the end of abortion in our country, I think of her.
Every time I stand tall in my 5’10” frame, I think of her.
There is nothing nicer than a tall woman who carries herself beautifully, she reminded.

My aunt’s heart failed in the years before she died.
She was taken to the hospital by ambulance and I was called.
After a lengthy stay with the best of doctors, I was told she could not go home.
She needed care and decisions must be made.

I found a wonderful place for her very close to my home.
I was able to go to her often, unlike my weekly trek into the city when she lived there.
At first, it was an adjustment, but then she began to like it.
She liked the friends she met, the singing she most likely led, and the many visits.

As I would come to see her, I would see the same people.
They began to expect my visits, thinking I came to see them as well.
It took me quite a long time to get to my aunt’s room.
The others would stop to talk and tell me things I had heard many times before.

I would always pass one room in particular.
I would see a woman lying in bed.
Her eyes would follow me as I passed.
I smiled and said hello each time I went by.

I asked my aunt about her.
She suggested we visit her.
The two of us walked down the hall and around a corner.
We visited Mary.

Mary, the woman I learned more about by the pictures on her wall.
Mary the stunningly beautiful young girl, living life, surrounded by friends.
Mary, the beauty in her modest bathing suit at the shore.
The pose, the look into the camera, the way it used to be.

Mary was delightful.
A tall woman confined to her bed.
Her body betraying her, shutting down, unable to move or tend to her own needs.
Mary’s eyes were captivating.

We became friends.
I would listen to her stories.
There was joy in her remembrance, but every once in a while, I would see it.
A wistfulness of times gone by; the ability to jump out of bed and walk outside.

That was not to be in this life.
One day, heaven awaited and Mary longed for it.
Mary knew that once again, she would leap and run and dance without pain.
Mary knew.

That is what she told me.
Her body was incapable of movement, but her mind was alive.
She could not do for herself or others, but I can pray, she would tell me.
But I can pray.

I often thought that Mary was doing the most important work.
She could follow you with her eyes as you passed by her room.
I would stop and talk for a bit, but what about the others?
Without even being aware of it, they were being lifted up to the Father by Mary.

What is the greater work?
I think Mary had that figured out.
Without moving a muscle, she pleaded for others before the throne of grace.
The same throne of grace on which she flung her own needs and her own helplessness.

On a few occasions, Mary’s joy was overshadowed by pain and frustration.
She never lashed out or complained, but I knew.
I would be at her bedside, holding her hand, and I would see it.
One single tear falling down her cheek.

One single tear telling a story.
One single tear that I would wipe away with a tissue in the box by her bed.
One single tear that spoke volumes.
One single tear that God understood perfectly.

I never asked Mary what was making her cry.
That tear was her personal offering of lament to her Lord.
That tear was to Him a symphony of praise.
That tear was from the one who lay there motionless yet pounding heaven.

Pounding heaven on behalf of others who could move.
Pounding heaven on behalf of others who could come and go as they choose.
Following with her eyes and praying with her heart.
Motionless to eyes that could not see the heavenly activity that took place in Mary’s room.

I was privileged to know her.
I continued to visit Mary after my aunt had died.
I continued for a while until visiting was not encouraged.
I remember Mary’s single tear.

The single tear that encapsulated the tears of the world.
The tears of the world from the broken body of a woman now made whole.

Mary’s single tear.
Unforgettable.

They will be His people, and God Himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. (Revelation 21:3,4)

Mary is Home now.
She was able to move mountains without leaving her bed.