A tangled knot of yarn do I untie. I work with such care, all I see is what is in my hands.

Yet I sit in a room, with a window, in a handsome dwelling, by an alpine meadow, with dawn breaking through in glorious fashion.

I look up and lo! Awareness and beauty.

What depends upon this painstaking, small task? Shall I drop it and drink in the lakeside?

What else shall I drop, Lord?

(Letter #3,439)

Listen to the wind sing through the lines while we huddle below.

Even tied down, our stores may be swept away.

Later, becalmed, without provisions — will we lose hope? Will we recall this storm and wish we had taken different action?

Will we realize that only an empty cup can be filled, and thank you for tonight’s wind?

Infinite grace, day after day, inexhaustible and ever renewing.

Let the lines sing.

(Letter #3,438)

I have learned.

Learned to rise from defeat.

Learned to accept unmerited grace.

Learned that buds emerge from a charred stump; families of foxes thrive under abandoned machinery.

Learned that while one night may bring woe; joy comes another morning.

Lord, thank you for the lessons you teach, with such a gentle hand.

(Letter #3,437)

You shower gift after gift upon me while I ask and ask again for yet more. Do you never tire of my neediness? Or pleased are you by my dependence?

You have never abandoned me, O Lord. Let my gratitude be pure.

(Letter #3,436)