Sunday, January 3, 2021

You go before me, sweeping the path clear of rubble, lest I turn an ankle. You set my noon table. You soften my bed at night.

A dense hedge is no bother, for the way will open when I approach. All I need will come to me.

Where has my trust gone? I beat my fists against blank walls, when I need but wait for the door to appear.

Grant me patience, Lord.

(Letter #2,185)