Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep.

Romans 12:15

I am thinking that one of the most challenging ministrations of our love for another may be when we are in the presence of a precious soul who is grieving. And if ever there were a time to be yielded to the leading of the Ruach HaKodesh it is at such a time; for He alone knows how to apply the ointment of compassion, mercy and gentleness.

As I look upon the outward appearance of someone in pain, YHVH sees what is going on deep within their heart and I do well not to trespass any of that which belongs to Him alone. He has been training me to wait expectantly with the strength that comes from surrender. His timing in releasing me to answer His summons is always perfect.

When the Ruach invites me to be an active and personal witness to another’s hurting, the likes of which I may have never seen before, I am being invited into what is sacred. And when the Ruach draws me into where He is at work I need only bow low and open myself as His set-apart vessel to be poured into and through.

I believe there is no “right way” to weep with those who weep. My Father tenderizes me so that tears are effortless and without self-consciousness and my heart fills with the desire to comfort others as I myself have been comforted by Him in Messiah Yeshua.

I’ve learned, by His wise and patient instruction, that often it is my silent presence and prayer that ministers most profoundly.

These are days I am moved to tell the beloved of YHVH that the likelihood of being called to weep with another who is weeping is great. My thoughts and prayers are with any of those who belong to Him who will be gifted with this overwhelmingly beautiful ministry. How I thank Him for leading all of us by the light and weight of His glory.

On a train moving away from sadness I watched my father fail to hold back unbidden tears until the weight of his grief lowered my head.

There in the nest of my lap my hands stuttered like restless wings of a caged bird going nowhere.

If only, I thought.

If only I were allowed to touch the bruised skin of my father’s heart, I would pour out the liniment of my love upon its wound with the same deliberate gentleness as fingers skimming over a line of braille in order to lay hold of meaning.

Stand upon stand of trees, the curve of meadowlands and the radiant setting sun passed by as a blur defying the stillness between two souls barely breathing.

All that I wanted was denied me…to weep with my father and to offer him the companionship and touch of my faith-filled silence. I wanted to hold some small part of his burden but could not and so I chose to embrace the only thing that could not refuse me.

Once upon a time on a train moving away from sadness I was a young woman holding my father’s shame behind closed eyes.