Early dawn march, on the way to battle. Fear looms; victory or defeat await.

High cliffside path, exhilarating to the climber, perilous without attention.

There I sit, on a bench, in this meadow, peace all around. There is no battle, no cliff, no peril. It lives in my imagination.

Lord, thank you for this suddenly clear view.

(Letter #3,419)

A woodworker at their bench, building a simple stool.

Who will sit on it? A farmer at chores? A student, reading? Me, building another stool?

Let the legs be even, let the seat be sturdy. Let no delicate finery occlude its purpose.

Lord, let me build for you, as you build for me.

(Letter #3,418)

I am a stone, in a wall, in a field, outside of the village.

Did I mark the edge of a pasture? Hide a secret garden? Keep out the hordes?

Whatever my purpose then, Lord, let me today be the resting place for a weary walker.

(Letter #3,417)

Walking a path by the cliffs.

The drop is deep, the way winds along it. Fear grips: will I fall? Can I continue?

In truth this path is like through the neighbor’s meadow, simply with different scenery.

Grant me reliance on you, Lord, when the way brings fear.

Thy will be done.

(Letter #3,416)