They drink from the well on my land, they pick the apples from my orchard. They do not ask before they take. I am depleted, my stores grow bare.

Who am I to say this tree is mine, this water mine?

Lord, let me not fancy myself generous when I give what is yours to my fellow children.

Yea, you made the day, even my time is not my own.

You exist in the exchange between one and another, you are circulating love.

Let me onpass what has been given.

(Letter #2,422)

I awaken to fresh trial — by noon you will have delivered me.

Where once there was shame and ignominy, now my neighbors shout praise.

The lack will be filled.

All this you promised and I did not believe. Yet you kept your covenant even as I sat idle.

How, now, shall I serve you, that I trust what you have said? My fellows will decide for themselves what to believe and what to scorn.

Is it enough, now, that I quietly tend my fields?

(Letter #2,420)

How narrow is the way. Dare I walk?

I feel on a knife’s edge, the ground falling away on either side.

Behind me are fellows depending on the trail I blaze. But I dare not turn to look.

O Lord, walk with me, walk ahead of me! Fix my eyes, that I do not lose my balance.

(Letter #2,419)

One trench to dig today.

Yet, Lord, I scatter my efforts and chip away at pit after pit. I am a child darting here and there.

Direct my energies, Lord, that I may have a result to show you at day’s end.

Let labor be my devotion.

(Letter #2,418)