The way is set. The path is laid out. You have planned it.

Your might has moved earth to fashion this mountain path; your delicate love has settled dew on each blade of grass in this meadow.

And now, do I march, insensate? Do I run with joy, in abandon? Do I walk barefoot, feeling each pebble under tender footfalls?

Press me from behind, beckon me from around the turning, hold my hand and walk beside me. You are all those places already.

All happens under your skies, dear Lord. Let me laugh at my own plans, at how small I am, how tenderly I am treated. You have filled the land with masterworks.

(Letter #1,806)

How, Lord, shall I make my life into a song of your grace?

You met me where I was, brought me along your pathways, found me this resting place with shelter and vistas. You have sent fellows my way to cheer me and be cheered.

Are they themselves your lessons?

The song is beauty in itself; it has no result nor outcome. Let me sing you.

(Letter #1,805)

I am a bird, jumping from branch to branch, never long enough to rest nor to build.

Lord, make me the branches. Let the birds come and go, my thoughts and worries, while I abide with you, the oak, the roots.

Yet O! I flit, erasing each moment with its new child.

Let me grasp you, stay, rest, remain.

(Letter #1,804)

Tossed in the breeze like a dead leaf, let me begin to feel my own weight. My feet stand on ground, it is only my thoughts that are so foamy and erratic.

Lord, you tether me in this spot and from here I might begin to learn what it means to live devotion. A small plot of land, made beautiful and welcoming to visitors, who come and go while I remain.

Let me love these boundaries and limitations, dear Lord. They teach me infinite wonder from within simple places.

(Letter #1,803)

I have so little to bring, like a child displaying bits of string and sticks collected in the woods. Facing the stiff mountain wind, these possessions avail nothing. Blow them out of my hand, let me stand naked and needy before you.

When you will have saved me, at day’s end, let me later tell my neighbors of the wonder of my rescue.

Today is perfect to depend utterly on you. What a story I will tell.

(Letter #1,802)

I set walking — and believe I have planned my own march. The direction is as I desire.

Driver me from my own arrogance and error, dear Lord.

(Letter #1,801)

Waking, I come upon an old hut. Walls crumbling, roof blown away. Those who lived here are long gone.

Lord, you shine upon those absent ones. The same sun shines on me now.

A deer walks across the meadow.

Let these old walls quicken me, Lord. You have loved me since long before I even walked this land.

(Letter #1,800)

I seek refuge and calm, away from the pressing day. But even the quiet park, in the middle of the village, will receive rain. Where then is my safety and quiet?

Lord, I carry your peace with me already. I need no oasis, no feather bed. My life shall itself be rest for my fellows. All who come, weary and frightened, let me welcome them with a smile.

Let me not seek, Lord, but rather give comfort. Let me be the oasis that is sought.

(Letter #1,799)

Let me be guided today. Under such conditions, how dare I worry? And yet I fret, stubborn.

Melt my heart, Lord. Let me ask not “what shall I do” but instead, “what shall be done?” Let my actions be anonymous.

(Letter #1,798)

I fear – therefore I perceive myself as having trouble. Yet what besets me, in truth? All my troubles are simply worry over what may be.

Here on this cushion, in this closet, I breathe and sit. No wolves at the door, no rats chew at me. I am safe, why do I not see it? How dare I see trouble amidst such gifts?

Lord, drop the scales from my eyes. I worry over illusion. Let me not squander your grace by seeking rescue from imaginary woe.

(Letter #1,797)