My body, after labor, repairs and strengthens itself while I sleep. Each day I have more capacity.

When, Lord, does my spirit grow stronger? While I slumber in the night?

I sit with you in the morning, Lord, soul-crushed and worried for the day. You soothe me and build me up. I rise and walk, eyes clear and spine straight.

It is my time with you that strengthens me.

I will sit with you alone awhile longer. Hold my hand, Lord.

(Letter #2,576)

Sit with me a while before I rush into the day with its frenzy.

Spare me from ceaseless activity, like an overwound spring.

Unclench my jaw, blow the wind through me, relax my belly, lower my eyelids, soften my gaze.

You were with me all along. I sat next to you, not you with me.

Let my breath slow.

(Letter #2,575)

A bug on a plate, without hiding place.

An ox before a plow, directed and laboring.

A hare, discovered and darting from the garden.

How you nurture and love all these things I am, Lord – in my quick fear, my labor, my exposure. You build a hedge of protection around me and I scarce notice.

Child of a king, let me rest easy, Lord, and walk through this day unspotted.

Thy will be done.

(Letter #2,574)

Do I dare mill next season’s seed? Deep winter depletes even my emergency flour. The seasoned wood is used up; I am burning twigs and green logs.

Will the spring come?

Everything I need is to hand, yet I do not touch it. I am a child, Lord, keeping aside one last cookie in case I later want a snack.

Spring will come. When has it not?

You have given me daily gifts and they continue. Grant me faith, Lord, as I grind new flour for tonight’s bread.

(Letter #2,573)