So loud, the dawn. The day approaches like a waterfall.

Your voice, so small, calling me to lean in.

Grant me discernment and a listening ear, Lord. Let me hear you in the rushing water.

(Letter #4035)

Each dawn, a choice.

Fear, or trust that all will be well?

Frustration, or acceptance of the world as it is?

Woe, or enthusiasm for what I may find?

Let me choose, Lord.

(Letter #4034)

Do I have courage to stand alone, under bright noon, and proclaim my devotion to you?

When in discourse, do I have courage to speak truth to those who see it not?

Am I ready for what will come, when the world falls away from you and a small few of us are left to carry on your will?

What if none of this comes to pass, and you are with me all along? Am I ready, even, for that?

Lord, let me be ready for you.

(Letter #4033)

That pile of wood that needs stacking, why do I fear it? The garden that needs planting, why do I hesitate? These things will not do themselves, nor will they attack me.

And yet I wait, fearful, at my threshold.

The sun rises and warms the meadow, it will warm my limbs and light my path.

Simple tasks become their own victory, all to your glory.

Let me go forth, Lord, as you prepare the way.

(Letter #4032)

I peer out my door at the gathering dawn — who and what will come?

My beating, worried heart.

What if I entered the world instead, with a mission to bring ease and peace?

Unclenched fist and jaw, easy breathing.

Shall I then walk forth? O! Lord, let me become willing to step off my porch.

(Letter #4031)

So far from my door to the day outside, where waits the unknown.

Is what I already have sufficient? Do I bring enough?

Once, pursued, I leapt, and discovered my legs could carry me over the creek I had long stopped before.

Once, in study, I learned I could remain awake through the night.

Lord, grant me discovery today of what capacities you already have placed inside of me.

(Letter #4030)

Long lakeside grass, a path and a fork in it. One way leads to the village, another towards dark forest. I cannot see which.

How can you let me, Lord, decide even such a simple thing? How do I not end up in peril?

Let me listen for your guidance and follow your way. Let the path bring me back home.

(Letter #4029)

Last week’s gift was a warm, sunny day.

Last night’s gift, a storm that blew through.

This morning’s gift is a quiet dawn.

Storm, calm, worry — let me experience all as a gift, Lord. Let me live thankfully each moment.

(Letter #4028)

The dew outside calls, while, in my rooms, I prepare for the day. What will I discover out this door? Will I be equal to the day?

You made me, remade me, remade me again. From glory to glory.

If I am to grow today, Lord, then let me grow.

(Letter #4027)

Does the wood need me to stack it? Or is it equally ready in a pile?

The forest needs no tidying or straight hedges — it calls me instead to live within it and be another of its parts.

Lord, you call me not to incessantly do, but to reside with you. Here is where the peace can enter.

Let me seek you, be with you, align my heart with yours.

(Letter #4026)