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.
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.
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.
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.
When, Lord, do I labor for you, and when for myself? Are my energies misspent, and how might I know?
I am the bewildered one. How, then, ought I act?
Lord, grant me clear orders. Compel me. I live in ignorance of your plans. My own designs always place me at the center, a drunken spider in his web.
Let me follow you, let me not second-guess the path, let my hands work of their own accord, moved by you.
Let my selfish thoughts watch on, impotent and spinning. Thy will be done.
That which I fear, I will soon enough welcome.
That which vexes me, will soon enough make me smile.
That which I wish to conquer, will soon enough overcome me.
I am shackled to this misshapen self.
Lord, let me become open to all these transformations. Let them wash over me, now, today, this moment.
Why wait to abandon fear and resentment? Swallow me in love, let me become it.
By looking at the path, I cannot tell where it leads. The well-worn way, does it take its walker to an oasis? Does it end tragically at a cliff, deceiving so many who have come before?
The right way may look overgrown and little-used.
My own senses are not enough, Lord. Set my feet in the right direction.
Let me heed your call to walk down even the paths that frighten me.