The day gently rises from its slumber. I stand at my window and search for the sun – pale and unwilling to pierce the heavy white cloud curtain. The droop of spirit is everywhere in the trees and flowers. It shouldn’t have been so, not after the invigorating rains, but it is. I will the sullen beauty of morning mists and listless breezes to fall into my heart and stir it to thanksgiving.
I refuse to fall into the greys.
For I have much to be thankful for in a world clawing for life as crack after crack, snakes across the ground.
There is a wave rolling across seas and lands, effecting a change of guard – some expected, others – not quite. One nation after another is facing sudden changes and upheavals. The foam of a sea in turmoil is flowing into lives, reaching one doorstep bringing tumult, going over another bringing jubilance and relief.
More and more, to go to bed tonight is to awaken to a surprise the next day. Or shock.
The ground is shaking and cracking.
The winds have been hammering a restless beat against my spirit from yesterday. Moaning against the walls of my heart, asking for what I do not have. I step back and study the winds. They come from homes I do not know. They swirl a plea against my heart.
I struggle to understand. I pray. But the prayers seemingly fall back.
Today, I awaken once more to the somberness of a day unsure of its call. Recalling problems I’ve heard and read about, I feel silent voices pleadingly pull at my spirit. I want to tell them the skies will blue again, and the winds will sing gold notes through happy green boughs once more some day. But, who am I comforting? Them or me?
There is a message on my phone. Grandparents reveling in the joy of their only grandchild. For a moment, I forget the lows of life and partake of that primeval joy of yet another Yes! to life.
And suddenly, suddenly, a shaft of light falls into my spirit! The light tumbles into burrows and tickles joy into hollows. Strength surges through me, but I immediately know it is for others.
Gripping my Rosary, I pray in imperfect hope, seeking the words for others,
Jesus, give me my prayer.
For long minutes, nothing stirs. I call for Padre Pio. I call for St Jude. I call for the angels.
Then, in the quiet still of a demure morning, I sense a stirring. One by one, in a slow, sad procession – face after face of every prayer need in recent days silently files past my consciousness. Pleas of those I know and do not know, the woe~wreaths of strangers and friends alike.
Is this to be my prayer today? I wonder, This naming of wounds? And what comes after?
I listen again for my prayer but none comes.
So, I return to the pleas before me. Families breaking up. Marriages ending. Dwindling bank accounts. Work struggles. Hunger. Homelessness. Suicides. Loss of children.
The sorrows of a hundred stories, of lives lived in the turmoil of uncertainty and loss of the familiar.
I look at each pain, touching each sorrow, gleaned from blogs and forums and life. I cannot take it away. Today, to even point to future joys might cause a worse wounding. Nevertheless, it is imperative that each soul knows they are loved, that they are not alone in their suffering. I want to love them in the same way I have been loved countless times, by nameless angels, in secret hearts.
Jesus, King of Kings, receive my prayer.
The prayer is like a light out of nowhere.
It falls deep into my heart and my spirit springs to life. In a lightburst, I understand. On the beads of the Rosary, every grief touched with the heart, is a wound placed into the hands of the King. And this is what He asks of me today – to bring the wounds to Him. No mountain to scale, no valley to plumb; only compassion to seek the lost and the broken, to be brought Home to Love.
I do not have what the wounded need, I never will.
But Jesus does, and always will.