There are pictures of people with frowning, contorted, somber faces, many smiling faces, but none with tears, only one picture of my sister, Rose, as a four year old, close to tears.  Yet many tear times are indelibly recorded in my mind and heart.

In 1954 when my dad’s youngest sister, Mary, died of Hodgkin's disease at the age of thirty three, the dramatic scene of my grandmother and aunts hugging with streaming tears is still vivid. 

Dad’s family tended to keep emotions formally controlled.  In church at the funeral Mass in Odessa, Saskatchewan, I was awed looking up at the tears slipping down the cheeks of my stoic dad. Only twice more did I witness my father's tears. 

Sending me back to Montreal at the curb in front of the Regina airport in 1993 just a couple of tears accompanied the monstrous hug he gave me.  I still wonder at the suddenness and the intensity of the moment.  At my extravagant farewell fete at Loyola Montreal in 1995, he slipped out of the hall away from my mother and sisters' watery eyes.  Although it seems my dad's vial had few tears in it, I still ponder them.

My mother tears were more copious. Tears of frustration, weariness, and sometimes anger accompanied her generous struggle to nurture and care for the first six of us who appeared within six years of her marriage. 

One striking memory of her tears hearkens back to 1954 when she was accused by her in laws of spreading a family scandal.  Devastated, her tears flowed through Sunday dinner and the courageous half hour drive to my aunt’s farm to sort out a reconciliation. 

In 1961 I only glimpsed mum’s tears.  After brief hugs and kisses of farewell I quickly boarded the train in Regina.  At age 18 heading to Guelph, ON, the Jesuit novitiate then, I peeked briefly through the train window.  Seeing the tears streaming down her face, I hid.  I couldn’t watch. 

There were many tears of joy at my periodic visits home, at my ordination and first Masses, but only a single tear fell as she died in the Pasqua hospital in 2004.  It was witnessed by two of my sisters who were with her, but mysteriously is in my memory.  The woman who told us that she “didn’t know how to do this” (die!), figured it out.  Precious tear.  Precious memory.

My own eyes have not been dry, but not wont to flow often or perfusely.  No doubt I have the “reticence to tears” DNA of my grandfather’s culture.   Other than an occasional empathetic response to others in tears, tears evoked by maudlin movies or songs, or those resulting from allergies, only twice have I been surprised and overwhelmed by them.

My parents had always wanted to visit Rome.  My home parish near Knonau, Saskatchewan, was named St Peter’s Colony Parish.  There still is a statue of St Peter holding the keys in the church today.  In 1983 on my first visit to St Peter's in Rome, as I entered the basilica tears simply gushed.  Somehow I was conscious of the presence of St Peter and that I carried with me into that shrine my parents, my entire home parish, and my family. 

In 1996, having stopped for Mass at Marty’s Shrine, I arrived at Pickering, Ontario, to begin a three month sabbatical.  My unpacking was interrupted by the phone.  My sister told me the news and my mother’s tearful voice echoed “Our father is dead”.  Phone hung up, tears simply streamed unabated for two hours.  Even after twenty years, I still am amazed at those tears. 

Some talk about tears as a gift.  I know Jesus wept over the city of Jerusalem and at the death of his friend Lazarus.  Mary Magdalene wept as she searched for the missing body of Jesus.   I know tears reflect what is happening in the heart. I guess that is why I am still left remembering and pondering them.  The heart is mysterious.  Tears are precious.