Only when my cup is empty can it be filled.

Let me pour out greater love to all who come. Let me go out looking for the parched, even those who do not yet know they thirst.

Cool water you have given me. How dare I hold it back?

(Letter #2,797)

Gray concrete and rain. My fellows see a harsh landscape; I see the blade of grass poking through a crack in the sidewalk.

Let me see more, Lord. Let me share the vision you share with me. Even under heavy skies, life grows inside us.

(Letter #2,796)

Would I have chosen this way of life, had I known where you would lead me?

Would I have accepted the terms of surrender, had I known the cost of forgoing all I had?

This place, these new riches of spirit, this fresh life renewed daily — I could not know its value until having lived it. What grace, Lord, to bring me here even in the face of my blindness and obstinacy.

In my gratitude, let me have compassion for those who have not yet chosen.

(Letter #2,795)

Walking the meadow, the growing grass is a power, holding the earth together. Seated at the riverside, the flowing water is a power, wearing smooth stone after stone and cutting new channels in the land. This gentle breeze — a power, training the direction of the saplings, as their older brethren all face the same way.

This power, so slow and gentle, so durable, so inexorable.

Let me walk in alignment with the wind, Lord. Let me slow myself that I may be part of your work.

(Letter #2,794)