A great excitement grows in me as I walk down the passageway to the remains of the western wall of the Jewish Temple, also known as the Wailing Wall. When we planned our journey to Israel, I thought first of this place. This place where God promises to remain, this place where people from all over the world come to pray and stand in His Presence.

The hot Jerusalem sun beats down but I feel more shade the closer I come to the wall itself. An attendant has directed men to the left, women to the right. As I get closer to the wall, I hear the gentle murmur of men’s voices wafting through the dividing curtain.

Many women already crowd close to the ancient stones on our side of the curtain: a beautiful Israeli soldier weeps with a machine gun slung over her shoulder, her dark hair coiled into a neat braid at her neck; an elderly woman prays in a wheelchair with her face cradled in her hands—an attendant standing at her side; Bat Mitzvah students pray from prayer books with their leader’s guidance. A few women pray with shawls draped over their heads. Others are dressed in smart dresses and jewelry, their high heels clicking on the path. Others wait with me in jeans and short-sleeved blouses, waiting in hushed silence for a space at the wall.

Finally it is my turn. Peace. Welcoming shade. The coolness of the stones. God’s presence.

And then I feel it. A heaviness greater than the massive weight of the stones. A deep sadness that feels like the sorrows of the world. Grief presses down and around me. Tears push against my eyes and I draw closer to the ancient stones, send a wordless prayer to the God of Israel, the Ancient of Days. I lean against the wall, afraid that I might fall to the ground under this sudden emotion, swallowing a lump in my throat, weak in the knees.

Tiny scraps of paper protrude from every crack and crevice. Each carries a problem, someone’s agony. I imagine the prayers for healing, the desperate petitions for deliverance. Prayers for children, wayward loved ones, and broken dreams. Prayers for safety and peace. Prayers for a land where there is no peace. Prayers for a world that reels under the weight of its own choices. Prayers from broken people looking for answers. Prayers from hearts that know nothing but anguish. All the problems of the world represented in one place.

I hear the silent voice of God speaking:

His eyes and His heart are here. He sees and carries these prayers. He carries me. I don’t know why He chose this spot, but He did. This is where His eyes and heart remain. The glory of this knowledge washes over me. I lean into the wall, unable to do anything but stand in His presence. I hadn’t expected this.

I don’t know how long I have been standing here—I need to place my prayer requests and make room for someone else.

I can’t reach the empty cracks higher up on the wall. Across the top of the dividing curtain I see the men’s requests going up a full level of block from those on the women’s side. If only I had a stool to reach higher. I finally kneel down and discover an empty crack near the foundation. I consider each request as I tuck it into the dusty crevice: Prayers for my daughters and son. Prayers for their spouses and children. Prayers for my sweet grandson with autism and my elderly mother with dementia. Prayers for my husband, my friends, my family, my country. Prayers for myself and the broken parts of my life.

Finally I pull out the tiny slips sent along by friends and stuff them in without reading them; thanking God for their lives and precious gifts of friendship.

It seems that all the yearnings of my heart are placed in the wall. I step away, leaving my heart tucked into the cracks of this Holy Place and return to the tour group, out of the shade and back into the hot Israeli sunshine.

His eyes and heart are here and always will be. It’s His promise. I don’t understand it but He keeps His word. He has the strength to carry my burdens. He has the answers.

It is enough.

Copyright Candace Simar