Sitting in the darkened church, light streaming through stained glass windows their color softly reflected on the pews. Dust motes dancing in the rays of light, the dust of ages mingling in a delicate waltz. In the windows, angels and saints with hands and faces uplifted in prayer their stories being told to the mute who sit there. My own prayer seems dry, a reflection of all that is around me as I sit in the pew, it’s dark wood smelling of the stained hands of the many who once sought comfort. A young child, being held in his mother’s arms his eyes transfixed by the colors, as his mother silently weeps for the losses she has endured. An old man, his voice cracked and broken by age holds on to the pew as he prays for endurance. These are the ghosts that surround me as I sit and linger in the moment, silently listening for those long, lost voices. I wonder what trace of myself will I leave, what part of me will linger as a ghost in this place? I wonder about prayer and discover that through the words that I write, as incomplete and shallow as they seem, that I am in prayer. A deep reflection of all that I see and feel in the moments and times that I have been given.