I wasn’t in the crowd. I
didn’t sing or shout “Hosanna.” I was on the sidelines—tied to a post, like I’d
always been. The rope wasn’t just around my neck. It coiled deep inside
me—knotted with wounds, tangled in regrets, tightened by pride, looped around
habits I couldn't break. When you’ve been stuck long enough, you start to
believe you belong there. But God sends people—when we’ve lost the strength to
move, too wounded to hope, too ashamed to ask. They came, simply to loosen the
rope and say: “The Master needs you.” Me? The tied one? Hidden, hurting,
half-hearted? Yes. Exactly me.
Then He came—just a presence like
still water on a weary soul. He placed His presence upon me, as if to say: “You
are enough. Even here. Even now.” He leaned into my silence. He made room for
me in His journey. He companioned me. And in that closeness, I felt something
sacred: my brokenness wasn’t a barrier—it was where He chose to begin. As I
took one trembling step after another, I realized—He wasn’t just entering the
city. He was entering my life.
And slowly, we come to see something
deeper: sometimes we are the ones He sends. To find those still tied—not only
by personal pain, but by injustice, violence, and indifference. To walk to the
margins, where dignity is stripped and voices go unheard, and say with love:
“The Master needs you.” To untie. To accompany. To carry Christ into broken
spaces by simply being present. Because the road to the city of peace is shaped
by those who carry hope to the forgotten, and healing to the bound.
- Lilly Pushpam PBVM
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