If I breathe in slowly, and remain still, I feel your breath enter. My nostrils, the back of my throat, my chest, my belly. A cool stream, a bubbling creek.

Underneath the slowly glowing sky, by the side of a pool in the mountain, I am restless. The moon shines. I stand. I run, agitated. No more breath to feel.

Lord, which is me? The frantic one, the seated one?

Grant me ears to hear, Lord. Let me find myself. Let me be found.

(Letter #1,876)

A walk from my doorway down into the village.

A walk from one end of the field in which I labor to another.

A walk to family in the next town.

A walk from my chamber to the quiet table at which I sit and organize my affairs.

How long these travels, dear Lord. Yet all take up just one of your glorious days.

Do your gifts reside in places discovered along each journey, or are they to be found in the duration of the day itself?

Let me be thankful for the space between when I awaken and when I retire.

(Letter #1,875)

Within this hour, all is well. I am whole. The next hour will be the same. And the one that follows.

Tomorrow may bring new treasure, or collapse and upended plans. It is not here, though, in this hour in which all is well.

Lord, what causes me to seek you so deeply? Is it soothing comfort? Privation? Discipline? Joy?

In this hour, you sit with me. I feel you near. You will be with me now, and the next moment and the next.

Lord, all is well. I believe you.

(Letter #1,874)

Frightened at what the day may bring, I view myself impoverished and weak. The truth is that this day dawns like the one before it. I have, here around me, all I need for the march. And yet I fret so.

My doubt is rebellion. Let instead my faith grow. Let me see the safety I already have. Let assurance grow in me.

Let my fear disperse like mist.

Like sunshine, Lord, speak faith over me.

(Letter #1,873)