THERE IS A RAIN THAT DOES NOT COME FROM THE CLOUDS

Priest Aleksandar RTOC

There is a rain that does not come from the clouds.
There is a stream that does not spring from the earth.
There is a lake whose depth has not been measured,
and a sea whose shores are unknown to us.
This is the rain that heaven weeps.
And when heaven weeps, who can remain dry?
Who can stand and not be touched by its cry?
For it is not merely a drop of water that falls,
but life itself returning to the one who has dried up.
If ever you feel that your heart has turned to stone,
that your soul stands like barren land where no life grows,
know this—heaven is waiting.
It waits for your first tear,
just as the parched earth waits for rain.
It waits for your first sigh,
just as the desert waits for a spring.
But when that first tear falls,
when the first sigh shatters the silence of your heart,
it is no longer yours.
It belongs to heaven.
It is the rain that returns to its source.
It is that which reunites the lost with the One who seeks him.
So do not fear weeping.
Do not fear sorrow.
For where heaven weeps, there life is born again.
There is a moment when everything in man stops,
when the world loses its color,
when each step becomes heavy,
and breathing itself is pain.
It is the moment when the soul,
overwhelmed by itself,
finally sees its own abyss.
When suddenly,
as if all comfort has been taken away,
all joy, all lightness of thought,
it finds itself standing alone before itself—
empty, naked, without excuse.
That moment is no coincidence,
nor is it mere sorrow.
It is the moment when heaven weeps.
For we do not weep first.
Before us, before our shame, before our sighs,
heaven has already wept.
Heaven wept in the night of Gethsemane,
when the Son of Man was alone,
surrounded by enemies,
while His own had abandoned Him.
Heaven wept over Jerusalem,
over the city that did not recognize the hour of its visitation.
Heaven wept at every moment
when the heart of man strayed from the Father,
when the soul, created for light, chose darkness instead.
And now, when you feel the weight in your heart,
when you have no strength to lift your eyes,
know this—heaven is already weeping for you.
Its tears are your tears,
its pain is your pain.
He is not distant.
He has not forgotten you.
He weeps with you,
waiting for you to understand,
to open your eyes,
to cry out from the depths of your being.
And what is that cry?
It is not a well-crafted prayer,
nor is it eloquent repentance.
It is the breaking of the inner man,
the shattering of the stone shell
that has kept you from the truth.
It is the moment when all you have—
is not enough.
When all you have built—
collapses.
When all you have believed about yourself
disperses like dust.
And then, in that wilderness,
from your eyes comes a single drop.
One tear.
Like the first raindrop after a long drought.
It does not come from the mind.
It does not come from words.
It comes from the very root of the soul.
It is a tear you cannot stop,
not a tear of earthly sorrow,
but a tear that speaks:
“Lord, I have lost You.
Lord, I can no longer go on alone.
Lord, bring me back!”
AND WHEN THAT TEAR FALLS
And when that tear falls,
when it touches the dust of the earth,
heaven is already open.
For that drop is not yours alone;
it is united with the tears
that once fell from the eyes of Christ.
It belongs to the rains
that have watered the repentant prayers
throughout the centuries.
It is the beginning of change,
the beginning of the journey,
the beginning of new life.
Do not fear that tear.
Do not suppress it.
Let it fall.
Let it wash away the darkness within you.
For when a man weeps over his own life,
the angels sing in heaven.
When a man allows heaven to weep within him,
then his soul has finally found its way home.
Who can understand the tear of the righteous?
Who can grasp why the saints weep?
It is not a tear like those of this world,
not a tear of sorrow without hope,
not a tear that seeks comfort from men.
It is a tear that speaks more than all prayers.
A tear that stands before the face of God
as the deepest offering of the soul.
Let us remember the prophet Jeremiah,
the man of sorrow,
who wept over Jerusalem,
foreseeing its destruction.
He did not weep because he hated his people,
but because he loved them—
because he saw them drifting away from God,
walking into darkness.
His weeping was like drops of blood
from a wounded heart—
a heart that carried the pain of God.
And was it not King David
who soaked his bed with tears in his psalms?
“I am weary with my groaning;
all night I flood my bed with weeping;
I drench my couch with tears…” (Ps. 6:6–7).
His tears were not only for his sins,
but the tears of one
who beholds the greatness of God
and his own nothingness before Him.
Saint Anthony the Great,
the ascetic of the desert,
spent his nights in prayer,
but his prayer was never without tears.
For he knew that no man
can draw near to God
without first being stripped bare,
without bowing low,
without falling in tears
like dust before the Creator.
SAINT JOHN OF THE LADDER bears witness to the monks of repentance, to those holy men who saw themselves as sinners before God. “Just as fire sparks from stone, so does weeping arise from the fear of God.”
Let us also remember Mary of Egypt, the great penitent. Was not her entire life a single tear? Was not her journey through the desert one long weeping of a soul returning from darkness to light?
But above all, above all the saints, our Lord Jesus Christ Himself wept.
He wept over Jerusalem.
He wept in Gethsemane.
He wept on the Cross while the world remained indifferent.
If Christ, the Sinless One, wept—how could we not weep?
The saints wept, not because they were without hope, but because they saw deeper. Their tears were not a sign of despair but a sign of love. These are the tears that have illuminated the centuries, that fell upon the earth and bore the fruits of holiness.
And now, as you read about them, ask yourself—where are your tears?
Where is your repentance?
Where is your heart before God?
For he who has never wept before God has not yet discovered the depths of his own soul.
And now, while your heart still beats, while breath still fills your chest, while these words pass through your mind, ask yourself:
“When was the last time I wept before God?”
Not before men.
Not in a moment of passing sorrow.
Not because of the pain of this world.
But before God.
When was the last time your soul trembled in His presence?
When was the last time your heart realized who you are, what you are, where you are?
Where are your tears?
Is it possible that you are so strong that you do not feel your wounds?
Is it possible that you are so secure that you do not need mercy?
Is it possible that you are so pure that you do not need repentance?
The Lord wept.
The angels weep.
The saints wept.
And you?
If your soul is dry,
if your eyes are empty,
if your heart does not know how to sigh—be afraid!
For a heart that does not weep is a heart that has forgotten God.
And if you have forgotten Him, where are you going?
Where do you walk if your path is without God?
But listen! It is not too late.
Even now, as these words pass through you, heaven weeps for you.
Even now, the Lord watches and waits.
He has not turned His face away.
He has not looked away.
He stands and calls you.
Let your hardened ground soften.
Let the first drop fall.
Let your heart break.
For that breaking is not the end—it is the beginning.
For where a tear falls, there a flower of eternity blooms.
Where the heart melts, there God pours out His love.
Where a man falls, there God raises him up.
And now, as you stand before this moment, before a decision, before life and death—what will you do?
Will you turn away and continue as if nothing happened?
Or will you fall to your knees, like the publican in the temple, and whisper:
“Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner!”
Know this—if that whisper becomes a tear, heaven will receive it as a pearl, and your soul will at last be free.
And as for me, what else remains but to wonder:
“Have I begun my journey home, into the embrace of the Father who loves me beyond measure?”
Remember me, a lowly worm, beloved in Christ.
Remember this prodigal son who has set out on the road home.
Text written with tears and sorrow,