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)

Let me see plenty where I saw lack. Let me have strength where I was weak. You set for me difficult tasks, that I may more fully rely on faith in you.

In drought, let me thank you for the water that soon enough will flow.

(Letter #1,872)

A crowd mills outside my door. They murmur and call me to act. Will I greet them with kindness? Will I empty my shelves to feed them?

O Lord, I cower and see them as assailants. Open my eyes, that I might see friends and not enemies, fellows and not thieves.

Let me give and give and give again.

(Letter #1,871)

Let me be a demonstration for my fellows. Of your providence, of your path, of your love.

As I perform these tasks and dispatch these chores, let me display cheerfulness. As I set my home in order let me display diligence. As I lay myself open to the criticism of my foes, let me display love.

Lord, let me reflect the joy of your way of life.

(Letter #1,870)

Your power starts in my feet and travels up through my limbs. My back is strong, my gaze clear. I am alert. My being is alive and present.

Lord, such a gift you grant me.

Yet I wish for more, grasping for trinkets and debris. Like a child, I long for piles of toys, which soon enough I will forget.

Let me walk through these lands, empty-handed and smiling.

(Letter #1,869)

You are the motive force behind this world. You cause things to grow.

Let me unleash your power, dear Lord. Let me align myself with inexorable growth.

(Letter #1,868)

You are power. Yet I see you so narrowly. I ask for help and strength to do what I already wish to do. In this way, I place myself at the helm.

Lord, let me give myself over to you. Let me align my will with yours.

Who am I to call on you for strength to lift a burden you have prepared for another?

Thy will, not mine, be done.

(Letter #1,867)