A bowl of tears, overflowing and never ceasing. Christ looks at our tears, we reflect in His. So much sadness.
The start of Holy Week here where I live has begun with stormy nights; the wind is howling down the chimney and the rain is intermittent, tears of the earth shedding in a multitude. Malcolm’s poem most certainly touches the heart, in His hour of need oh how we ignore His pleas. We tune out from His existence in our lives and any thoughts towards Him are constantly interrupted by the demands of life and the forgotten art (skill) of listening and being still. But I find myself yearning to hear Him and to see Him but forget too quickly that it is a two-way process. I too must learn to listen to Him again. Malcolm’s thought from Palm Sunday of keeping a House of Bethany within as a space for an intimate encounter with Christ is a thought we should all ponder on and then construct, without building walls to hide behind but ones to enclose us in love. Yet, somewhere in our house we keep a bowl of tears to reflect upon those times we ignored His calling and those tears are His. I hope the bowl never becomes a well.