I’m in the business of burying a tear~seed today. Digging and pressing into the soil a small, broken dream, an old hope. I’m not making the resting place just any place. I’m giving the seed a home in the Sacred Heart of my Jesus. Because I want this sadness to be purified and made to be worth something.
A long time ago, I dreamt of an unknown nun in grey, who, in my dream, had prayed for my well-being, and was instead told by God to ask me if I’d be willing to receive twin babies.
With no hesitation, I accepted.
After that dream followed years of hoping and waiting. Alongside so many other journeys, I embarked on this secret one of waiting to be given twins. And it turned out to be a lighting and a snuffing out of one tiny lantern of hope after another, the cycle of breath~held hoping followed by twisting sadness with every disappointment hidden deep within me. In the parable of the Prodigal Son, the father awaits his child’s return in anxiousness and unabated love; I too know something of this waiting. I know, with a sad familiarity, the tilt and lurch of heart that comes with this solitary watch by the window of life.
But it’s time to leave my vigil by the edge, because today I finally know I was called to this wait and hope, not for myself as I thought, but for a precious soul somewhere in the world.
For some reason, I was called to this cross of hope for the sake of a child; asked to suffer this, so a baby in an unknown part of the world may be saved.
This little baby has now been saved, lifted from gentle waters. Safe in the arms of a nun in a boat, – a nun I do not know, in a black habit – who gave up being a mother, to indeed become a mother to souls, traversing the waters in her boat, in search of little ones to lift out and keep safe.
The call to suffer for those not known to us is a call that berths in every heart, seeking the embrace of the human will. Sometimes, the call is clear; often, it is misted, with the veils being parted ever so slightly when heaven deems it right. Sometimes, we are told the outcome; sometimes, not.
The great saints who have embraced the will of Heaven tell of their joy in the gift of salvation received by souls they have suffered for. And they yearn to suffer more, to unfurl that banner of life even further and deeper, that more souls may come to know the refuge of heaven.
I am no saint. I neither yearn for more suffering, nor do I carry my crosses as well as I should.
Yet, this time, I refuse the luxury of tears over the end of this particular journey, for to do so is to indulge in selfish bitterness, ignoring that my suffering was for a little life to be saved. So, into a little brown seed, I place all that is broken and hurt within me, all the bewilderment. What little I understand. What I never will. Everything, grain and pearl alike, I press deep into the Light of the Shepherd’s Love.
To die now, but to live again someday, this seed washed pure in His Precious Blood and in His Mother’s Tears. Because years before, my angel had gently shown me, unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it produces much grain. (John 12:24)