Tomorrow is a fiction. I will never see it.

This day, how will I spend it? Will I squander it on worry? On self-consolation? On remorse over yesterday?

Lord, there is a blank canvas stretched over the day. When I retire, let it not remain empty.

(Letter #1,937)

What within me remains unconquered? My self-regard, my obstinacy, my fear?

If you were to vanquish these, Lord, how would it feel?

Let the armies surrender.

(Letter #1,936)

I hunt for a map before I set out to face the day, and food for the journey. How else to guarantee my arrival?

Lord, awaken me from this fugue. Start my feet moving. I need no map; you will order my steps. I need no supplies; you will sustain me.

I hesitate. I am fearful. I am obstinate. What if the road is hard? What if I encounter hunger?

Grant me a full measure of willingness, Lord. Thy will be done.

(Letter #1,935)

If I am water, let me be a stream, with a direction, a beginning, an end. Let me be no swamp, nor puddle.

Let me flow to you, Lord, clear and babbling across the stones. The brook laughs as it skips toward the lake. The lake sighs as it feeds a mighty river, marching home to the ocean.

Let me laugh; eventually I am going home.

(Letter #1,934)