If I am your instrument, Lord, will you employ me every day? Will I sit idle on some days, unused but ready?

Even a full day contains pause. In between moments, do I prepare myself for later use?

Let me make ready, Lord.

(Letter #2,976)

I collect and save trial, difficulty — all in a great storehouse. My pile of woe I polish until it gleams. Yesterday’s troubles, living on and on.

These are not today’s troubles. They are shadows. Today’s path is not yet walked.

Do old ghosts serve me? The day sparkles with dew, how does my brooding improve it?

Let me release my grip on these old ways, Lord. You teach me to be more a child. Let me abandon myself.

(Letter #2,975)

What bud is growing within me? Hidden until it blooms, bringing beauty into the world.

Will it come today? Will I recognize it?

For now I tend the roots and soil.

(Letter #2,974)

A wound spring, tight, until finally I am moved to ask: help me, Lord!

Is it virtue that caused my delay? Am I to be praised for finally seeking you?

Delayed relief. Free will. You leave the way to you open, Lord, but we must walk there of our own accord. How it must hurt to see the road so empty!

Let me, at long last, walk to you.

(Letter #2,973)