It is time for angels.
Yesterday, I began to do what a nun at church told me after Mass two weeks ago: When you pray for someone, send them angels, she said. I am not accustomed to praying this way although I know many do so. But I thought it was time I signed up too. I’m in another emptying inside. No matter how deep I dig into my inner wells, there’s very little water to be found. Yet, I can feel that I am being fed. Nourished. Strengthened. Guided.
I am not wilting from the inner drought.
So, there is water nearby.
A mysterious flow of dew I cannot lay claim to in any way because I can sense that its source has no roots in my efforts – not in my sacrifices, not in my prayers, not in the ruts and tangles navigated so far.
What water is this?
In my mind, I turn over what little I know of water. This year, I discovered two founts of this Water. The Tears of the Holy Mother. Water from the Heart of Jesus. Two founts, yet one and the same. I have yet to fully comprehend their import, but I have already tasted their power for others I have immersed in them. During Lent this year, I felt the call to immerse lost and dying souls in the Springs of Lourdes. When I pondered the source of the miracle springs, a sign was given and I was made to understand that the Lourdes Water was the Tears of the Holy Mother.
Then, came the learning of the piercing of the Crucified Jesus. An act of cruel, earthly mercy that gushed forth a New, unblemished mercy~water, blessed in the Blood of sacred Sacrifice.
And in recent days, a hand took mine and led me to the apparitions of Banneaux, and to the words, Plunge your hands into the water. This spring is reserved for me. I am the Virgin of the Poor.
And now, although a mere puddle wets the floor of my spirit shell, everything I do is being wet by a hidden stream.
How else can I explain the lightness of step and the skip of joy in my heart when I cannot feel the beauty of the world around me? When rainstorms, sunsets and sunrises in all their natural glory~beauty fall upon my deadened senses and fail to wake them, yet I am happy and focused? Where are the words for when my prayer efforts are facing its newest and strangest struggle yet – every single prayer I start evaporates at the very first words – but I am at peace within?
I have never before been empty inside yet walking on light. Every previous emptiness or emptying has torn me up, frightened me, driven me to a madness of desperation.
But not this time.
There is a drought within, but no wilting. When my eyes trace the efforts of the week, I see them glisten with a dew.
There is Water somewhere. Someone is watering my spirit. And I wish this for others as well. To share this Water of Life. There are droughts in places when the wells have run dry. There are places where the well-springs of the soul have been tainted and poisoned, and multitudes drink from them. And there are other inner wells, far from empty, but which need to be filled in order to spill into seeking souls.
This Water is much needed. So, I send out what has been given to me. I pray this Water into other lives. I pray what scraps of prayer I can, and I ask the angels to fill the waiting shells.
The Tears of the Mother.
The Spring of Banneaux.
Water from the Heart of Jesus.