Friday, October 25, 2013

Where are my children?

 I come to the Lord with anguish in my heart, with the bitterness of loneliness. I feel as if there is no one else who can understand my heart. "Lord, You have taken away my friends and have given sorrow for my bread." I, half weeping, bow my head to the ground on the wooden floor of the Adoration Chapel, trying not to draw attention to myself amidst the small group of people gathered here to pray this evening. I have come to pour forth my anguish and sadness to Him Who has suffered for the sins of the world.

 Kneeling in a pew with my hands clasped in front of me, I silently whisper, "My Lord, words cannot express the pangs of my heart as it beats in its loneliness... I know that You are always here with me, but my heart has become numb to the sweetness of Your presence and can only concentrate on how my friends have neglected me... You see, Lord, I know that my friends cannot always be there for me, and I cannot always be there for them, but alas, I feel alone and in need of someone to understand and love me."

 As I speak, an unspeakable bitterness overwhelms me, and as I close my eyes in deep sorrow to weep cold tears, I see with my mind's eye Our Lord in all His sufferings, carrying His cross on the sorrowful way of Calvary. My senses have been taken to the scene of a large crowd mocking and spitting at the belittled figure of a man with the enormous burden on His shoulders. As He carries His cross, amidst the cries and fresh tears of the afflicted women, the mocking of the cruel Roman soldiers, the chaos of the great crowd as each person attempts to catch a glimpse of the bleeding Lord, and in the midst of His great pains in which even His bones can be seen, He moans and raises His muffled voice and cries out, "Where are my children?" It is as if a sharp sword has been driven into my heart and is being rammed in with a fuller force at each word being pronounced. He cries again and again "Where are my children? Where are my children? Is there not one to console me?" My heart will burst and its blood gush forth onto the dry, dusty ground of the road on which He walks, and I will die of sorrow if my ears are again pierced with His lamenting cry. My loneliness is turned into a sea of bitterness, and I have nothing more to do than to bask in the emptiness and pain of my heart. No one is here to console me; no one is here to console Him. We are two wandering souls bathed in a river of tears. Yet I now understand that I am not alone in the bitterness of desolation. There is another soul whose void of heart longs to be filled with love.

 I open my eyes to escape the horrible images of His suffering and see the flicker of white candles held in clear glasses below the bloodied crucifix next to the monstrance in the Adoration Chapel. As I attempt to gather myself together once more, I hear the loud whisper of a small child next to my ear: Come closer. This chant is repeated for what seems to be a thousand times with each successive chant becoming slower and more elongated. At each time those words are said, the beating of a heart becomes louder and louder until my ears become overwhelmed with its sounds and the eeriness of the child's whisper. With so many emotions, tears, and images, my heart buckles under the weight of it all and collapses interiorly.

 "I will console You, O Lord." I whisper in the utter brokenness of my soul. "Your children are not here, but I am here. I will console You, O Lord." My voice is mingled with the voice of the child, and it is as if though I myself have become a child. Mustering the little strength left within me, I kneel in front of the monstrance, thus drawing close to the Heart that beckons me to love It. 

 After a brief moment, walking to the back of the chapel, I take a piece of paper next to the petition box and write quickly "Jesus, I resign myself into Your hands", signing my name at the bottom of the paper and dropping it into the petition box.

 My heart, though filled with an aftertaste of an intense fraught, leave with the little knowledge that I have at least given some small comfort to my Lord, and I now know that loneliness is not confined to my heart alone.

2 comments:

  1. Incredible. Thank you Justin for yet another heartfelt story!!! God bless!

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  2. That was amazing! It reminds me of St. Faustina's relationship with Christ. Thank you for this! God Bless!

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