I saw a woman cry.

It made me want to cry too —

but I didn’t.

Not physically.

I wish I could cry out to Jesus,

but I feel like my tear ducts have been soaked up.

I’m all cried out.

I used all my tears in the last season of my life.

Still, I could feel the soul of my cry.

This woman was a stranger,

yet my soul cried for her just the week before.

I kept seeing flashes of her face during a personal fast.

Then behold — she’s at the altar call, crying.

I saw a woman cry.

Lord, what am I to do?

It reminded me of the Round Table Pizza worker —

crying out to me about being stretched thin

with three kids as a single mother.

Why do women cry to me?

The first woman — I just saw her.

And the second — women like her always cry out to me.

Not a tearful cry, but a soul-cry.

A silent scream.

A deep ache.

I’ve got nothing left to cry about.

This is where my empathy is tested,

because when someone tells me something deeply painful,

all I can do is sit in silence,

wondering if I’m able to connect that way anymore.

It’s like I’ve lost connection.

Like my well of feeling has run dry.

Not because I don’t care,

but because the weight of my own sorrow

has numbed me to the sorrow of others.

Maybe that’s why women cry to me —

because they’re the very women waiting for me,

waiting for me to sit still long enough

so God can show me how to help them.

How to use my testimony in Him to give them strength.

Women are the backbone.

But there are too many playing roles God never designed them for.

Maybe I’m the pillar for women who cry out

but no one hears them.