What is harmony? Am I to sing any note and hope for accompaniment?

Or, once the melody is known, are not my tones circumscribed?

Let others sing from center stage, and let me sing these few notes. Let the world look elsewhere and wonder whence the fulsome sound originates.

Your music, Lord, let me make your music.

(Letter #2,174)

They came for me in the night. I thought them robbers, sent to harm. They brought rescue.

I do not know what is good for me. I protect what I should trade away, I squander what I will need.

Lord, I am in the belly of a machine. Let me gladly be one gear in a series. Build with me, and let the world function.

Thy will be done.

(Letter #2,173)

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)