At the Door

Excerpt from Michel Quoist’s Prayers (1963)
As read out during Oikos on July 27.


The boy stumbled on the landing and the door slammed behind him.
He had been punished.
Suddenly aware of his disgrace, he rushed in anger at the unfeeling door.
He slapped it, pounded it, stamping and shrieking.
But on the wooden surface not a fiber moved.
The boy caught sight of the keyhole – ironic eye of that sullen door –
But on peering into it he saw that it was blocked.
Then, in despair, he sat down and cried.

I watched him, 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 wasted 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.