On a long walk, knowing I will become tired, can I be assured of rest? Always, Lord, have I found a place to sit.

The herd lacks a fence — you provide the wood. Even when the rains come, they answer a need.

I so deeply feel my lack. Let me more deeply trust your providence.

(Letter #4043)

I see them approaching slowly across the plain. What will they bring when they arrive?

It will take they day for them to arrive, will I fret and worry the whole time?

No time, now, to sit in sullen woe over what dusk may or may not bring.

There is wood to stack, a fence to mend, a new song to be written. Preparations to be made.

The work calls. Let me do your will, Lord, even as my hands tremble and my breath catches.

(Letter #4042)

Breathe in and breathe out the morn! The birds call and the dewy grass beckons.

In a world of pressure, can I take a moment of joy, before I become diamond?

Let me give rest to all those who come today. Breathe in. Breathe out.

(Letter #4041)

Surely your plans for me today are not the same as my own. You are the Lord of Surprises, outstripping my meager imagination.

I plan to paint the fence; you bring rains and instead I rediscover myself meditating in darkened rooms.

I plan travel to a distant town; on the way I meet needy neighbors, stop to comfort, and so avoid calamity that awaited.

Grant me willingness, Lord, to love your surprises.

(Letter #4040)