I strain my ears to hear you, I lean forward and hold my breath.

I clear away the clutter of my room and sit still, listening, a blank slate.

I hear not your voice; I see not your face. O Lord, are you absent?

Even on the gray days, my heart knows your orders. March on, looking for others who are lost. Welcome them into the light. Be the walking light.

Let me be the torch for which I seek, Lord.

(Letter #2,285)

I battle with you, stubborn and mulish.

You open the door; I sit and sulk. You warm me with sunshine; I turn and shiver. You pour treasure over me while I cry poverty.

Could it be that the world I see is false? My fists are clenched. They can hold nothing.

Open my hands, Lord.

(Letter #2,284)

Within this yard, I am free to roam. The fence line vexes me.

I escape, and escape again. Each time the consequences become more severe. There are dragons in these lands.

Freedom is aligning my will with yours.

Let me taste and live this freedom, Lord.

(Letter #2,283)

I thought I would bring peace to this place simply by being still in the early hours. A riot of birds call, deer and foxes run. What calm could I bring to this joy?

In the village is conflict and chaos. Shall I bring peace to that place? Can I, yea, bring joy from the meadow into the alleyways?

Am I healing others or myself? Point me, Lord.

(Letter #2,282)

I tremble before the duties of the day. Do I fear poor outcomes, or simply the existence of work?

Like a child, I pine for a day empty of obligation. On such days I am rudderless, a paper cup in the wind, and I retire regretful and dissolute.

Are these chores gifts? A child seeks not idleness but play. Let me approach these gifts as a child.

(Letter #2,281)

What stand am I willing to take? I cower in the face of others’ judgment, my devotion unproclaimed.

Am I, then, indeed your child? I feign self-sufficiency and orphan-hood.

This wide path I walk, it will reach a fork and I will have to choose.

Let me walk toward the sun, Lord, even along a disused road.

(Letter #2,280)

For there to be peace, someone first must lay down arms.

Let me be the one who surrenders.

For there to be growth, the seed must die as the new shoots unfurl.

Let me be the seed, become a husk.

Plan upon plan, let me give it all up, that your will might be done.

Let me volunteer, Lord.

(Letter #2,279)

An open field, a blue sky, a lone tree. Even at noon there is a shadow. The brighter the sun, the darker that small bit of meadow.

O perversity, there is where my focus falls. I peer and peer, unable to discern the blades of grass. Crestfallen at such blindness, I retire at night a failure.

And all along, the sun shone upon my neck and lit the way for the multitudes who passed by, wondering at me on hands and knees.

Lord, loosen my gaze that I may see again.

(Letter #2,278)

My worries and woes are trivia. I fear judgment of others, and that what I want will be withheld.

These are my prayers: let me be accepted; let me have bounty.

Have I not these things already? Is there more that I could legitimately ask?

Let the day be one of sufficiency, Lord, your gifts already received and revealed.

(Letter #2,277)

Joy upon joy is coming, yet still do I mope in the face of a garden that needs weeding.

I kneel before the window at dawn. Warm light kisses my elbows while I clasp my hands.

Not one challenge too many do you lay upon me, Lord, and not one gift too few. To whom shall I pass this good news?

(Letter #2,276)