Who was there, Lord,
in that first week of Lent?
When I, at the prayer service,
(not even a Mass)
listened, dissapointed, (in myself)
as a deacon spoke of you.
I hope he was a deacon but it was not my church
and I did not know the man.
Who was there?
Was I, as I went away angry, for not having been satisfied,
I had forgotten about the desert.
My Lents have always been filled with someone elses dreams,
of stories of such spiritual times
of joy, of trials.
Mine were mostly nothing to rejoice about,
to tell ones friends about.
Again, I'd missed the point.
I had forgotten
the silence of the silence.
The silence that enwraps you at times you don't expect,
like when that passage from the Bible strikes a chord.
As this past Thursday evening when at Adoration
one hour slipped to two...
...and the slow re-dawn of silence.