I am looking for rescue, hoping against hope that you will come to me, Lord.

You are already here.

I look around my rooms, peering into corners. If you are here, where are you?

The last place I dare look: inside me.

Help me know myself, Lord.

(Letter #2,953)

I am in a cave, and yet will the sun rise. I do not see it, but it warms the land.

When I emerge, there will have been growth.

Do I need proof to know the sun shines?

Must my prayers be answered for me to believe?

I do not need to see the gears move to know a clock is working.

I hide from the storm for now. Let me trust that grace will come, providence will come, peace will come.

You will come.

(Letter #2,952)

Are all the paths to you through desert? Is the stony way more deserving than the easy meadows and sunlit tracks?

Why is suffering applauded amidst grace and peace and ease?

It is my choice to endure rather than celebrate. Grant me a grateful heart, Lord.

(Letter #2,951)

If I sit in a forest glade, breathing deeply the morning air, I welcome the creatures who rustle around the edges with me.

Seated in my rooms, glad of my orderly surfaces, I easily miss the darkened corners.

Let my expectation match your reality, Lord. Let me humbly follow your will even as the path winds through stony places. There are no floors for me to polish out here.

(Letter #2,950)

Does the day belong to me, that I may win it? Or do I belong to the day, which will do what it will?

I sit by a mighty lakeside, pouring out dippers of water to weary travelers. They could drink on their own, neither is the water mine to give. Yet there I stand, pleased with my beneficence.

Grant that I may see my own reality, Lord. I pass along what is not mine, to others who could find their own supply. The true resource is that I am awake.

Let me awaken yet more.

(Letter #2,949)

Will you save me, Lord? I peer into the darkness to see if you are coming.

I think, on the other side of heartache lies peace, and I steel myself. Yet it is here before me even in the midst of calamity. Rain falls on parched grasses and awakens then. They were not dead but dormant.

You already rescued me, why do I look to the future? Today contains all it needs. Let me follow you through this day.

(Letter #2,948)

Between plenty and penury, a knife’s edge. Walking the ridgeline, a peak between valleys.

Will you maintain my poise, Lord? Grant me balance that I may encourage my fellows on their own narrow pathways. Guide my feet that I may not fall into the deep.

You are Providence, Lord, let me have stronger and yet stronger faith.

(Letter #2,947)

How often, in all the moments of the day, can I thank you? How often know you are with me, under me, behind me? How often give myself over to you?

You are already with me, Lord. Why call out to you when you are here? My cries serve to remind myself of my dependence.

Let me stay close to you, Lord, for I am prone to wander.

(Letter #2,946)

A spiral path, inward and inward. At its secret center there you are, there I am.

Peace carried from battle to battle.

My fellows speak, it is your voice I hear, an echo of what you told me from within.

I hold a torch, does it make the light or does it reflect the fire you struck in my heart?

Within, without. Seen, unseen. You are my secret, Lord. I walk and I walk, yet we were already there.

Be my peace, Lord.

(Letter #2,945)

Your power flows like an underground river through the land, feeding oases and watering holes.

The traveler finds respite, bowled over with gratitude. Too thankful to wonder at its unlikeliness in the desert.

Food left for others to find. Donations appearing at the last moment. Litter picked up without fanfare.

Let us act in secret, Lord.

(Letter #2,944)