Homage to a brilliant writer

 My friend and I walked and talked today, feet in the ripples of chilly seawater, sand ridges hard under winter-soft feet.  We talked, books we had read, my leaving one church, trying another.  Our life details whilst skirting around pebbles and breakwaters. And we shared our love of the "Prayers of life" by Michel Quoist.  I read them as a new Christian, she read them to home group.  I find this one so heart-challenging.  When I was 35, it felt so poignant to me.  A single person with a hidden "secret" I couldn't share. And at 56, it feels less raw, just sad. So here is his beautiful "The prayer of a priest on a Sunday night"

                                                            "    Tonight, Lord, I am alone.

Little by little the sounds died down in the church,

The people went away,

And I came home,

Alone.

I passed people who were returning from a walk.

I went by the cinema that was disgorging its crowd.

I skirted cafe terraces where tired strollers were trying to prolong

the pleasures of a Sunday holiday.

I bumped into youngsters playing on the footpath,

Youngsters, Lord.

Other people's youngsters who will never be my own.

Here I am Lord,

Alone.

The silence troubles me,

The solitude oppresses me.

Lord, I'm 35 years old,

A body made like others,

ready for work,

A heart meant for love,

But I've given you all.

It's true, of course, that you needed it.

I've given you all, but it's hard Lord.

It's hard to give one's body; it would like to give itself to others.

It's hard to love everyone and claim no one.

It's hard to shake a hand and not want to retain it.

It's hard to inspire affection, to give it to you.

It's hard to be nothing to oneself in order to be

everything to others.

It's hard to be like others, among others, and to be of them.

It's hard to always give without trying to receive.

It's hard to seek out others and to be unsought oneself.

It's hard to suffer from the sins of others, and yet

be obliged to hear and bear them.

It's hard to be told secrets, and be unable to share them.

It's hard to carry others and never, even for a moment, be carried.

It's hard to sustain the feeble and never be able to lean on

one who is strong.

It's hard to be alone.

Alone before the world.

Alone before suffering,

                   death,

                sin.

Son, you are not alone,

I am with you,

I am you.

For I needed another vehicle to continue

my Incarnation and my Redemption.

Out of all eternity, I chose you.

I need you.

I need your hands to continue to bless,

I need your lips to continue to speak,

I need your body to continue to suffer,

I need your heart to continue to love,

I need you to continue to save,

Stay with me, son."

 

(Michel Quoist, Prayers of life)