An open field; I can wander where I will. Soon enough I may find myself snared in brambles, or fallen into a hidden creek.

A meadow with a pathway; I walk with purpose, yea, even through dark woods the way is clear. I arrive to safety and you are with me.

Lord, let me give thanks for clear direction and today’s limitation.

(Letter #2,873)

God, grant me a mind of peace. Circumstances press in, my thoughts dart from problem to problem. Frantic speed will not fix what is broken.

Spread through my awareness like a pool of honey, Lord, sweet and slow. Let me rest, stop, breathe. You prepared this day for me, let me walk through it with appreciation.

Slow pace, great faith, careful gratitude.

Thy will be done.

(Letter #2,872)

Do I hear music? So faint, it is barely there. Is it a quiet song, or distant?

Let me walk toward the singing, Lord, and take up my voice.

(Letter #2,871)

What footsteps will I leave?

If I sow confusion, if I sow discord, let me find balm to soothe.

Let the tracks I leave be ones of harmony.

(Letter #2,870)

You are with me, Lord, and as well you came before me to prepare this place. It is made ready for precisely this time, I am made ready too.

The garden has been tended long before I enter. The floors of the ballroom polished. The field sown.

The work of today, it is no mistake not happenstance — you planned this long before. Let me marvel at the perfection unfolding.

(Letter #2,869)

Do I walk through wilderness, with only occasional meadows? A difficult trail.

The world is an oasis, with light and momentary deserts.

The weary, let me help them see the peace all around already. We can rest at any time.

Lord, let me share your gardens.

(Letter #2,868)

Am I myself or am I your beloved? Servant or son?

I stand before bare ground and you hand me a shovel. Am I to dig a ditch, or unearth treasure?

Lord, let me recognize your gifts when they appear. You make no hard terms — let me not create my own prison when you would have me walk free.

Thy will be done.

(Letter #2,867)

What I pine for — is it here already?

The relief I seek — can I already exhale?

The joy, the peace — already in my grasp.

Open my eyes and heart, Lord, that I may see clearly your love for your creature.

(Letter #2,866)

If I work at forgiveness, do I not still remember? Let me forget, Lord, let the self in me wither.

Meantime, the sun shines into the garden, and winter is ever distant.

Woe, reprisal, worry — let them all slip away as my limbs warm. New buds there are to tend.

(Letter #2,865)

What day is this, that calamity looms, and yet I smile and stroll the park?

Could it be that I realize you designed this day just for me — that an episode of woe is part of your design as surely as is joy. My task: to accept, to learn, to grow, to improve, to smile at my fellows.

Let me walk the park with a song, Lord.

(Letter #2,864)