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At the door

The girl stumbled on the landing and the door slammed behind her.

She had been punished.

Suddenly aware of her disgrace, she rushed in anger at the unfeeling door.

She slapped it, pounded it, stamping and shrieking.

But on the wooden surface not a fiber moved.

The girl caught sight of the keyhole-ironic eye of that sullen door-

But on peering into it she saw that it was blocked.

Then in despair, she sat down and cried.

I watched her, smiling, and realized, Lord, that often I

exhaust myself before locked doors

I want to make my points, convince, prove,

And I talk and brandish arguments,

I strike hard to reach the imagination or the emotions,

But I am politely or violently dismissed-I waste my

strength, vain fool that I am.

Grant, Lord, that I may learn to wait reverently,

Loving and praying in silence

Standing at the door till it is opened.

(from PRAYERS OF LIFE by Michael Quoist – with adaptations)

 

 

 

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