Presence.

Distance.

Distant ghosts, distant regrets, gnawing worries.

Let presence reign, Lord. Let me inhabit where and when I stand, and the distant things recede.

(Letter #3,328)

To build a life, Lord, in which I do not need courage, let me take steps.

Let me rise in the morn, before dawn, and sit with you, feeling your nearness.

Let me act at noontide, in the village square, surrounded by neighbors and merchants, offering solace to the struggling, buoyed by your whispers in my ear.

Let me retire, close to thee, a balm of forgiveness dripping down my forehead and closing my eyes.

Gripped with fear, facing worry, living woe — these dayparts fade like mist under sun, if only I cleave to you, Lord.

A life in which courage is unnecessary, fear is fleeting and laughable.

Let me take steps, Lord.

(Letter #3,327)

You are here beside me, Lord. I feel you, even before the day has quickened me.

You are here beside me, Lord, at noon, even in the thrall of action.

You are here beside me, Lord, at eventide as I retire.

Let my strength equal the day’s length, Lord, as I depend on you moment to moment.

(Letter #3,326)

The day is a circle, my life is a circle. Dawn, dusk, night, day without beginning.

Let me glide through events today, Lord, in loose robes and with easy gait — all while hammers clang and shovels pitch about me.

This day began and will end. I began and will end. In between, Lord, grant me willingness to give over my life to you.

(Letter #3,325)