This is the day you have made.

This meadow, you have made.

This rainstorm, you have made.

I am one you have made.

Let me rejoice at all of this.

(Letter #3,348)

They lock their doors and shut away their treasures against the night.

I walk the lanes and byways, in early hour, before they have risen and opened their windows.

Are the doors shut against me? Or do they keep in the warmth?

Let me look upon the closed gate with love, Lord. You knock, and wait for invitation. What inestimable grace, that we may all make our own choices. Can I do the same, with equal patience?

Let me knock, and wait.

(Letter #3,347)

Small works.

Even small works may be masterpieces.

In the gallery, found, hung, curated, so easy to recognize. They pull you in close.

On the way, in the field, under the crush, who can see?

Let even my small works show gratitude, Lord.

(Letter #3,346)

The foundation is already laid, was placed long before we were here.

The wind whips, grinds down the earth. As I walk, I lean forward and look down to the earth.

A bug on a plate.

The wind and its trials have left me alone with bedrock, Lord, all around me the aftermath. In a bubble of peace, resting on rock.

Bring on the next storm, I say, bring it. Your foundation, the grace of your strength, your infinite forgiveness — all here with me, rooting me to rock.

O the exhilarating calm! Let me do your will with what I have.

(Letter #3,345)