Great things will come to pass. I am an optimist about tomorrow.

But what of today? Do I endure the gray time? Does the dawn bring only challenge to be mastered or borne?

Lord, the skies contain miracles for which we need not wait. The rains come; they carry life.

Let me already live in your promises, Lord.

(Letter #2,527)

Sit with me here, on this bench. We need not speak – you need not answer. Friends sit silently together all the time.

Worry will drip into a puddle at my feet. Tension will fly up and out of my shoulders. My belly will relax and I will breathe with these.

Will my presence heal you, too? You are my companion, Lord. Let me be yours.

(Letter #2,526)

Erase the self in me. Let me whisper, all is well, to my fellows and buoy them when they weaken.

I will polish the floors of your mansion for others to walk upon, Lord.

Thy will be done.

(Letter #2,525)

Shadows move about me. They are my fellows, sent by you to move in and out my awareness.

Will these ghosts lend their hands, or are they here solely to whisper?

Lord, let me discern distraction from message.

(Letter #2,524)

On the day’s march, I worry so. What will I eat? Where will I go? When Providence arrives, or the way opens, I sigh in relief and thank faith.

Yet these gifts, treasures in the moment, are meager. I awaken each day already apprehended by grace – you are nigh with me before need, during need, after need.

I am in but not of this world, Lord. You are overflow, let me see it.

(Letter #2,523)

I knew you not, then came to you. It did not happen in a day.

I was asleep, and I became awake.

I loved only self; now I try to escape it into love of my fellows.

When did I become willing, Lord?

I cannot recall my own birth.

Let not this gift become lost. Let me remain awake, Lord.

(Letter #2,522)

In desolate lands, I will await delights.

In the desert, I will stride on, confident that my thirst will be quenched.

The crops failed; I will eat my last grain in faith that the land will again provide.

In the dark, before dawn, I cower. With the spreading light, O let me recall faith.

I was rescued yesterday. You will yet rescue me again today.

(Letter #2,521)

They look down upon me as they march by, walking with definite purpose, pressing onward toward a goal.

Such industry as I rest immobile. You have struck me still, Lord, while progress flows all around.

When the storms come, and the wind blows, they will need to tie down and grasp hold of the earth. They will need me, unmoving me, rooted me.

They will cleave to me soon enough. Thank you, Lord, for stillness. Thank you, Lord, for the grace to be generous.

(Letter #2,520)

You lead me by the hand, I scarcely know even the familiar paths.

Could I bear the full truth, Lord, were you to strip the scales from my eyes? Such mercy you let me remain wrapped in fog.

These woes and trials, they served to bring me willingness to draw nearer to you. Let me thus thank you for tribulation.

My blindness, let it be removed. Let me stand like a new foal, shaky and blinking.

I will soon enough run.

(Letter #2,519)

I thought you would visit me in the time before dawn. You beckon me to come to you, out into the world and its activity.

Do I take the shortcut to town center? You send me, nudge by nudge, the long way around where I meet all the ones who prepare the day.

How else to learn empathy, than to be with others? Left to myself, I would have sat alone.

You beckon me. I draw nigh to you.

O thank you, Lord.

(Letter #2,518)