Morning walk in the meadow. Mist and cool, still air. If in earlier days there were a battle here, no trace remains.
Did the victors feel the same air, as they strode across the field? Was the ground littered with chaos?
I walk and reflect on coming days. There may be battle. There may, too, be compassion and surrender. Am I the one to decide?
Lord, let me drink in this time between. Breathe in. Pause. Breathe out.
Pause.
(Letter #3,746)
Daily Letters to God 