I have stacked these rocks into a fine wall, and fashioned a handsome gate through which to enter this tidy yard. Look at me preen as I step out my door and survey my fine work.

Does this neat patch of land send me closer to heaven?

Lord, you are sunshine and grace, shining down upon me even on this cold morning. Your warm love forgives me this self-satisfaction in my labor.

I am humbled, Lord, at how you love me even now, with my ordinary shortcomings on display.

Let me forgive the fellows I may meet their ordinariness.

(Letter #2,506)

The end of this day is certain, as is the end of all my days. The sun will set; I will retire. Only once will I fail to rise the next morning.

Today, dawn. The meadow is fresh with untrod dew. What path shall I make? The same as yesterday? A new, untried direction?

Tomorrow I shall begin again and it will be today. Then let today’s path be worthy of this day, for it is all there is. All depends on my next step.

Take my foot in your gentle hand, Lord, place it softly on new grass, pointing at grace.

Order my steps, my life, my day.

(Letter #2,505)

I am a lit candle; the dark of my closet is no match.

I am a rung bell; silence cannot shut me down.

Wherefore, then, this fear?

Who, could judge a flame, or a peal? Your light shines from my chest; your music from my mouth.

There is no race to run nor target to hit. Let me speak your words after you, Lord.

(Letter #2,504)

Of a life of woe, which parts are trial and which pleasure? Of a day of challenge, which parts vex?

On a string of pearls, must one affect its neighbor?

I persist through a day-cascade of joy with episodes of pause. Each trial is but a moment.

Lord, let me awaken anew over and over.

(Letter #2,503)

What of my speech? Do I preen and burnish my reputation?

How, Lord, shall I better speak humility?

Make me transparent that, through me, they might see your message.

There is love to be shared, good news, encouragement.

(Letter #2,502)

Will today’s miracle be a dramatic rescue, unfolding at the last possible moment? Will it be the eleventh-hour blanket of peace that settles into the last valleys of conflict?

Will today’s miracle, Lord, be our recognition that you were here with us all along?

I stand and walk to a neighbor, bringing a bucket and a stool. Will they see the delivery of needed implements as miraculous? What of the miracle that, in walking, I fall forward and catch myself, step after step, over and over?

Or, even, that I bestirred myself at all? I went to them for reasons unknown to me.

Let me live yet among everyday miracles, Lord.

(Letter #2,501)

Carrying these stones, one by one, I build a grand structure. Four walls, a roof, a palace.

To reach it I have hewn a trail into the mountainside, loop upon loop, switchbacks, a forest highway.

I am already whom you made me to be, Lord, yet I labor daily to leave a mark. The forest will grow to reclaim my dwelling, the pathway will choke with brush. What traces will I have left then?

I should instead have wandered from hut to hut, bringing cheer and welcome to my fellows, making friends.

There is still time, let me go calling.

(Letter #2,500)

Grudgingly have I crawled along this hallway, wishing I could return to the refuge of my chambers and a soft bed. The cock crows and the chores do not wait for an aching back and weary grip.

I am one piece of the machinery of industry, standing before a great stamping press, keeping my hands just ahead of its cutting maw as I feed sheet after sheet into it.

Lord! These days of labor are sea mist. I play at being a figure of woe but I am the child of the king, charmed and blessed with ease and sunshine.

What I thought was pain is the tingle of power. What I thought woe is joy.

I am dancing in place, twisting, reaching! No cog I.

Tonight I will run back home to tell of all the wonders I saw and did.

Why was I crawling? I scarce recall.

(Letter #2,499)

I walked along a ridge line with steady wind coming up from the valley. The farmland below was drenched in sun while I battled the breeze. From the fields they watched a lone figure struggle against unseen forces.

Did my heroic efforts generate gratitude in the multitudes I saved?

Did my hunching gait provoke pity as they wondered why I resisted so dramatically?

Up here, a couple strolls by, holding hands as they break from their chores, sun on the backs of their necks.

The war is long over, why battle I? Let me turn my face toward warm sunshine.

(Letter #2,498)

Is today the day? Will my hopes arrive?

There is a flood of relief as I unclench my fist. There is no battle to join.

I have already won my race, found my treasure, made family proud.

We are all already safe, sound, whole, loved.

(Letter #2,497)