I live in a mansion, with room after room after room. The carpets are worn along the path I run: library, salon, ballroom.

In my frolic, I rarely notice the closed doors. What rooms have I yet to see? The kitchen, the laundry. Who toils in secret to bring me my toast?

Let me slow and be grateful for all who support me.

(Letter #2,172)

Enemies, or simply hunters, have placed a snare along the way on which we walk. Early this morning, you whispered to me exactly where I would need to be watchful.

Now we walk together by the trap, stepping gingerly around it, and I view it with neutrality.

And yet I wring my hands over unseen snares. Are you not with me, a constant companion? Wherefore come I to such disloyal fantasy?

Lord, you save me and save me again, even before the need. Let me walk serene, knowing this.

(Letter #2,171)

I put my few possessions into a sack, and set out for the next village. Leaving one dull life, thoughts of tomorrow, and all I will find that is new, overtake me. I can scarcely contain myself. I am trading new dreams for old.

New village, new fellows, new home, new chores, new worries. Here I am, planted in tomorrow, and it feels like today.

O bitter woe! I have miscalculated, and brought myself along on my journey.

Lord, you shine down on yesterday’s home just as much as today’s and tomorrow’s. I was thriving, I am thriving now. Let me flourish here, even growing through the frost.

(Letter #2,170)

I tend a secret place, that began as a forgotten corner. Weed-choked, solitude its only asset.

Morning by morning, in gloomy dawn I have husbanded this spot, making it a place of welcome.

Lord, I draw near to you. You visit me here. Let us now make ready for others.

I shall leave small signs of invitation all around, for those who have eyes to see. Ones and twos may come.

Let me, Lord, await them with a knowing smile. You will visit us.

(Letter #2,169)

Today, as on all days, you offer choice. Shall I try to draw near to you, or walk alone?

You love me enough to grant me this freedom.

I travel from one village to another, hoping for fresh horizons, but bring my old self into each new place.

These forking paths are tempting, Lord, but let me choose the ones that lead to you.

(Letter #2,168)

Night frost has killed the garden.

A pipe has burst.

Yet still comes dawn. My charges must be fed.

Lord, you sustain me even in the face of calamity. Wherefore, then, do I seek license to shirk my own duty?

Make my chores into devotion, Lord.

(Letter #2,167)

Who hopes for what they have? Let my lack be your opening, Lord.

Is faith possible in what is plain before my eyes? Let your presence remain invisible, Lord.

How can I love, when I rest swaddled in comfort? Let the gaze of my enemies be softened as I send them gifts of treasure, Lord.

Let me have gratitude for all that is not yet, that hope, faith, and love may grow within me.

(Letter #2,166)

You inhabit the smallest places, the most ordinary beings. You are the fox, the mule, the cricket.

If I sit still, the creatures may come to me. You may come to me. I am stretching out my hand, straining my ears. I am whispering into the gloomy dawn.

Will you visit me? Will I recognize you?

I am one among your creatures, Lord. Someone else sits still, listening. Would you have me visit them?

(Letter #2,165)

I am not my own. You have set me aside, apart, to be used when circumstances call for it.

Every tool has a purpose. What is mine, O Lord? Am I the chisel, the hammer, the spade? Or am I a delicate instrument with a narrow yet needed capacity?

Let me wait, patiently, for use.

(Letter #2,164)

Where are those weeds I had intended to pull? Where that fence line I was to mend? I look, but cannot find yesterday’s troubles.

Today was to be a day of woe. Instead I have clear skies. What shall I do beneath the bright and unsparing sunshine?

Lord, I give thanks for the winds that blew over my pile of duties. Order my steps, and let me live the day gratefully.

(Letter #2,163)