Chapter Three: Tears as Sacred Water

Chapter Three: Tears as Sacred Water

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

They say tears are a sign of weakness. That crying makes you soft, even spineless. I've heard that more times than I care to count. A man like me, openly emotional, a deeply sensitive soul with a quiet presence folks look at that and think it means I'm fragile. But let me tell you something: there's more power in one sacred tear than in a thousand angry words.

See, I was never the loudest in the room. I was never the one beating my chest or demanding to be seen. Most of the time, I was off in a corner, lost in thought, listening to the sound of the wind brushing the trees, or watching the sky shift from dawn to dusk. I’m not built like the world expected. And honestly, I’ve made peace with that.

I remember a time I was in what I now call my “lifeboat” a moment in life where everything was flooded, and I had nothing left to hold on to but the hope that I wouldn’t drown. It wasn’t a literal boat, but a spiritual one. Emotionally, mentally, even physically I was surrounded by the deep waters of loss, disappointment, confusion, and despair. I could barely see the shore. There were days when I was sure the waves would swallow me whole. I was floating in my own sorrow, drifting with memories and trying to stay afloat on prayers and promises.

One of those days, my mother, Marva, called me. Her voice was soft but strong, like music played from an old record player you could hear the years in it, the wisdom and the wear. "Baby, don't let this world tell you who you are. You hear me? The Creator already named you. Already shaped you." I held onto those words like they were a life jacket. Mama always had a way of seeing right into me. She knew when I was sinking, even when I swore I was fine. She’d say, “It’s okay to cry. Let it out. That’s not weakness, that’s washing. That’s a baptism.”

That stuck with me.

When my mother passed in 2011, it felt like the ocean finally tipped over and swallowed me whole. That pain? That was a different kind of deep. The kind that doesn’t go away, it just changes shape. Some days, it’s a quiet ache in your chest. Other days, it’s a storm that crashes through your spirit without warning. But even in that sorrow, I could still hear her voice echoing in my soul. I’d find myself talking to her in the dark, whispering my fears, asking for strength. And somehow, the tears I cried in those moments felt like they carried me to safer waters.

You see, I cry not because I'm weak, but because I feel. I carry the emotions of people I love and those I’ve never met. I feel pain that’s not mine and hope that doesn’t belong to me yet. The Creator made me this way. He gave me a heart that bleeds ink and a soul that listens to the silence. He molded me not to be tough in the way the world defines it but to be tender in a way that changes the world.

My spiritual brother once told me, “You’re not soft you’re open. And being open is the hardest thing in this world.” He was right. Vulnerability is not a flaw. It’s the foundation of all connection. I know that when I write, I’m not just putting words on paper. I’m pouring my whole self into it. Every tear I’ve cried, every night I spent alone, every moment I felt forgotten or overlooked it’s all in there. And maybe, just maybe, someone will read my words and find themselves. Maybe someone sitting in their own lifeboat will realize they’re not alone.

People don’t always get me. I know that. They see a quiet man who stays to himself and assumes I’m detached. What they don’t see is the depth of my reflection. They don’t know that I’ve been called to something different. Not better just different. The Creator carved out a path for me that looks nothing like the road most travel. He chose me to be a vessel. A vessel for stories, healing, compassion, and truth. I didn’t ask for this. It was handed to me like an assignment from heaven.

Now if anyone shaped that spirit in me early on, it was my grandmother, Celestine. That woman was something else. Sweet when she wanted to be, sharp when she needed to be, and full of that old-school wisdom that could stop you in your tracks.

I remember one summer afternoon we were in the kitchen, and she asked me to help her clean greens. I must’ve made a face, because she looked at me, raised one eyebrow, and said, “Boy, you want to eat, don’t you?” I said yes, and she snapped right back, “Then get to snappin’.” And just like that, I was in there, snapping green beans, trying not to get popped with a wooden spoon. I was pouting too, like kids do, and she stopped mid-cleaning and said, "Let me tell you somethin’, ain’t nothin’ wrong with workin’ with your hands and sheddin’ a tear every now and then. The soil cries too before it gives birth. You think you’re better than the earth?” I didn’t have a response for that.

She had a way of making everything sacred even chores. I’d be in the yard with her, planting seeds, and she’d say, “Every seed you bury is a prayer. Don’t forget that. You treat it with care, with attention, and when the time is right, it’ll grow.” That’s how she raised me. With that kind of wisdom.

And she made me laugh too. One time, I came in the house crying after falling off my bike. She wiped my face, kissed my scraped-up knee, and said, “Well, you ain’t dead, so either get back on or start walkin’ everywhere.” Then she winked at me. That woman had a humor so dry it could crack the Sahara, but it always came with love.

The last real deep lesson she gave me was during one of her quiet moments. We were sitting on the porch just the two of us. She looked out at the sky, then turned to me and said, “Sometimes, the Lord will sit you down just to make you still enough to hear Him. We keep askin’ for answers while we runnin’ around with our ears full of noise.” I never forgot that.

So here I am. A man who cries. A man who reflects. A man who carries the sacred water in his spirit tears passed down from Marva and Celestine, filled with love, truth, and purpose. I know the world sees it one way. But the Creator sees it another. And every drop that falls from my eyes is a part of the story He’s writing through me.

I’ll keep pouring. I’ll keep weeping when my soul needs to, because someone out there might be thirsty for hope. And if my tear becomes the drop that brings someone back to life, then it’s all been worth it.