I Cried, I Broke, I Couldn't Speak

I saw a post from my friend Jim Bishop this morning. About the night he was ten years old and his grandpa died, and his dad told him grandma would need him to be strong. About walking inside, grandma reaching out to hold him, and something in him going numb. About running that program for forty-two years. Strong on the outside. Nothing gets in, nothing gets out.

I read it twice. Then these words showed up.

I cried, I broke, I couldn't speak.

Those are weak words for a leader to say.

I almost broke when I first called the infirmary to get help for my scout at the top of Baldy. I could not get two words out until I gathered my composure.

I cried when that scout finally left Baldy Town, cried from the weight of caring for him and worrying about him.

I cried when I gave the crew their Arrow Patches at the end of our last meeting as a crew, Saturday night.

I cried, I broke, I couldn't speak.

Weak images for a leader.

Or are they?

Forty-two years ago, Jim was told to be strong. On top of Baldy, I had to be strong too. But I almost cracked.

To some, that's weakness. Weakness that I almost cracked. Weakness that I'll admit it.

But that thinking is wrong. Almost cracking is not cracking. Having to gather my composure is not losing it.

Another friend, Mark Voor, posted something else this same morning. A verse from 1 Corinthians: God has chosen what is weak in the world to shame the strong. Two friends, two different mornings, two different reasons for writing. Same truth waiting for me on the same day.

Maybe cracking isn't the opposite of strength. Maybe it's the proof of it.