Thursday, October 15, 2020

I am on no straight walkway. The trail curves and loops through the wood.

All the paths are yours. The choices I make at each fork are illusion, for in either case I am still along your way. I have no need to panic if I miss a turning. Slow my breath, Lord.

Protected and led, I am a child in the park, always safe.

Let me feel your hand in mine.

(Letter #2,105)