Saint Simon’s Cave

—June, 2025

I was already feeling weary, already

thinking that this might, in fact, be my last visit

to my beloved Simonópetra, my last

visit with my beloved Father Iákovos.

My hope for the morning was modest—I had hoped

to light a candle and say an earnest prayer

for a dear friend suffering. My hope for the day

was to find again the peace that I had found here

some twenty years before. How might I say this now?

I had hope, but had no faith. My earnest prayers

over the past year had appeared to yield little,

though the act of prayer—the leaning in, the deep

calm of attending to The Presence—continued

to be a sorely needed balm, almost enough.

My morning plan proved unlikely, as the narthex

of the katholikon held no candle stand, nor

could I recall where such a stand stood waiting.

Dim-witted, worn and weary, I thought to find

some little peace in Saint Simon’s cave some distance

up the road. Entering the cave, I cracked my head

on the low doorframe, hard enough to occasion

tears, as I clamped shut my eyes, and felt my way

to the stone bench inside. I prayed what I would call

a broken prayer—worn, weary, and suddenly

without hope or faith. When I became calm enough,

I opened my eyes, and through the dim blur of tears

saw before me the single vigil lamp ablaze,

saw the grip of sweet beeswax candles awaiting me

in the holy narthex of dear Saint Simon’s cave.