The rains gather; the winds grow. In my high aerie I watch, alone. My stores are low; I will need to go to market, a journey of half the day one way.
Comfort calls me back.
Thy will be done, Lord, I say in the morning. But do I make your will mine? Go where you say? Do what you would have me?
My simple needs, they open the way to you. It is my want of provisions that brought me to the place where gather the people whom I may later help.
Let me see need itself as a gift, Lord.
(Letter #2,971)
Daily Letters to God 