Sitting in the car he rested his head on the steering wheel for several minutes. Tired so tired; he had driven aimlessly through the last hour and here his wondering ended. Inside the house was stability where childhood scrapes and bruises had once been tended.
He was in his prime but felt ancient as he worked his way out of the car and onto his feet, he moved toward the house each step an effort, slumped shoulders, head drooped, and the downward gaze cast a gloomy curse on the ground with each forward motion. It had been a particularly hard week full of grief, and his fractured heart dragged behind him adding to the weight. Nothing in his thirty-five years had prepared him for the course now set before him.
Across the room an aging mother observed her son as he entered the house and a mother’s intuition emerged, “how are you doing son?” As they embraced a greeting, “You are not doing to good are you?” The words broke him and the tears soon turned to sobs and she held him.
The father stood to the side not moving. After several minutes the son looked up with tears cascading down his face and the two men’s eyes connected. The younger quickly diverted his eyes but not before a small amount of shame leaked out knowing his father saw him broken.
The father stayed motionless and gave no rebuke. He was dealing with his own brokenness. Here his son was hurting and he felt small and helpless. He wiped away a tear but it went unnoticed by the son.
After all men don’t cry.