A while back, Deacon Tom Fox wrote a column in this space called “The Gift of Tears.” I’m a dry-eyed gal most of the time, and I have always prided myself on that trait.
Nothing says “practical farm girl” quite like dry eyes.
Then I started going to Mass.
I certainly didn’t mean to turn into a blubbering mess. At the time, I was a tough know-it-all college graduate, and I was only there because this good-looking Prince Charming of mine insisted that he had to go before we could go on a date.
My ego and I often don’t fit in the same room at the same time, and I had to go to Mass to find out what all the fuss was about.
And I found tears.
Not just sniffly, polite tears. Not just leaky-eye tears. Not just moisture-and-trickle tears.
No, what I found were gallons of tears, buckets of tears, oceans of tears.