I wake, and here in my rooms you are with me.

I walk the grounds, you are with me.

I wander the forest, you are with me.

I retire, you are with me.

My constant companion, my most devoted friend, my Lord above all.

You are always with me.

(Letter #2,846)

A walk in the woods. Who says that, along this lovely path, I will not find brambles, or a snare?

Is my flesh to be torn? Am I a caught hare?

Lord, walk with me. You guide my feet. You turn thorn to dewdrop, trap to cushion. Your sunshine pours down upon me, I am protected, I am loved.

I draw near to you, will you walk with me?

(Letter #2,845)

The farmhouse standing alone, one window lit, a soul at dawn prayer.

A lone shadow, seated on a bench, watching the sunrise easterly over the grand river bank.

A dim study, a grand desk, volumes stacked and dog-eared, elbows on table, hands clasped, head bowed.

I know all these friends. Here in the dawn, away from the world yet in it, connected through you, Lord. We listen for you in the stillness.

Your voice whispers to us. Let us do your will.

(Letter #2,844)

Let no words pass between us, Lord, as I turn to you in my weakness. Let me make no demonstration nor ritual of my simple plea.

The words, the acts, the discipline — burn away the self-pride that infuses it all.

If I simply turn my face to you, Lord, will you shine upon it? Will you turn toward me as well?

The silence of love is thick and all around. Let me grasp it.

(Letter #2,843)