Praying in a dark church is about the only time I believe that lack of electricity can be a good thing. As I stood in the chapel of the monastery on Saturday night, a chapel with no electric lights, the word “vigil” moved from being just the name of a service to the desire of my soul. A few candles flickered, the icons were just shapes and shadows, and the monotone of the monks’ chanting spread a warmth that started in my chest and flowed out to the tingling of my fingertips. In the darkness, it was easy to let the tears flow, those tears that are a gift. The tears that come when prayer stops being a rote exercise and begins at the beginning; at the Light that never knows darkness.
Here is some information about the life of the Saint:
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