My tortured will seeks peace as the dawn light reaches into my room.

When I ask for peace, what will come? Will it be relief from woe, absence of conflict, the ending of war? What will come, in place of these things?

Let me spread peace, Lord, tangible peace.

(Letter #2,272)

When walking, and I see sticks on the ground, let me not kick them to the side but clear the way with care.

Let me not leave my garments in a heap, but fold and hang them.

The day is filled with choice upon choice. Let me approach each as one who is devoted to the craft of living.

When I reflect on the day, let it have been filled with care and devotion, moment by moment.

Let it start with these sticks.

(Letter #2,271)

I sought you on windswept plains, on mountaintops, in extreme circumstances. I thought I would find you on the edge of the world.

Instead, you came to me in this small room, where I sit hidden. Dawn does not trouble me here, nor the rains.

You crept in while I sat dejected and broken.

Let me seek not the exhilaration of the mountain top, but your sweet whispering in my closet.

Come to me, Lord.

(Letter #2,270)

I age; am I the same ship that set sail many years ago? The mast, timber, and rigging have been replaced, yet still I struggle with the winds and list. Point me east and still I drift.

Should I not have arrived? Should my ways not by now be straight?

So much repair remains.

Lord, you give me the dawn like a shiny new coin. My chores are the same as ever and it is the same body I bring to each one.

How many times have I swept this floor? Let me rediscover the broom.

(Letter #2,269)