Mercy Flourishing The reservoir was empty when You arrived, atop a desolate (but not God-forsaken) landscape. You gave it the name Mercy Flourishing. Decades later, the hot winds were still awhirl, dust coating the paths, porches, withered fields, green banyans and neems, as I mounted the small hill to reach Your Tomb and enter Your Immaculacy. Sometime or another, I thought to bury myself somewhere deep in that merciful ground as best I could, but half-covered and mournful, I couldn’t finish the job. And now I can never come clean. Returned to the world, everywhere I go I’m still caked in the grave dust of Meherabad. O child of God, it’s not a do-it-yourself task. Reach a humility that allows His grace to flow.
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