Look! Someone has planted a garden. It is dry; let me water it.
Look! Someone has placed a free library. Let me add to its stock.
Look! A new trail has been built. I will clear debris from it after the storm.
Let me assist the work of my fellows, Lord, anonymously. Let me be a steward.
(Letter #2,231)
Nourishment comes to me in a husk that is discarded. Is it thus without use?
No, what I discard is needed, the wrapper within which substance is delivered.
As I burn away husk after husk, Lord, let me be grateful. You wasted nothing, and likewise I dare not.
(Letter #2,230)
I am to venture out from my home today, into the village. I will meet neighbor upon neighbor, each with a new challenge.
I fear the crush of the day.
Lord, this peace I have here with you, let me bring it with me. Let this be what I offer the churning waters of the day.
(Letter #2,229)
What, Lord, are you already doing? How futile of me to try to change the shape of the river.
The course is set. Shall I play or abandon my role?
Let me take direction, Lord.
(Letter #2,228)
This small patch of ground, upon which sits my chair and upon which I sit, slowly gathers up unto itself. This is where I am before you, Lord, this holy square of floorboards and carpet.
The village is filled with all kinds, the world hurtles forward in chaos and maelstrom. This small square is a raft of devotion.
Here, even on my knees, let me learn the joy of obedience. Though I be alone with you, let me share what I find.
(Letter #2,227)
You say, “judge not.” Yet this instruction I defy constantly, dividing my fellows into for and against, they and we.
Blind me, Lord, that I may more easily greet unseen enemy with friendship.
Deafen me, Lord, that I may not hear nor react to the recriminations that may circulate.
Mute me, Lord, that I may speak no ill.
Let me not hate. Let me greet all with love.
(Letter #2,226)
The villagers see the image I allow.
My close fellows and family, see my actions, even those I might wish to hide.
You, Lord, see through even the veils of self delusion. You see my secret wants and fears.
When I ask you to guide me, Lord, let me be willing that you guide my thought life. Let this radiate out and into every other corner of the day.
Image, action, thoughts, intents – let these all be yours.
(Letter #2,225)
Alone on a raft, adrift and afraid. What creature will devour me? How will I make it home?
Wait, you say. You will rescue me anon.
Whimpering and rowing are equally futile, so far out from land. Self-reliance is no friend to me here.
Wait, you say. Sit calmly.
When you deliver me, will it be amidst frantic motion, or will I find the wherewithal to wait seated?
O dear friend, let me meet this test.
(Letter #2,224)
What is of no more use will be cut away, will dry, and be burned in a heap.
What remains will await warm sun and flourish.
I am being pruned. Farewell to what is no longer needed. Shine now on my bare branches, Lord.
(Letter #2,223)
This room. A hut, a cave, a den. I am with you, and nothing can intrude.
The path. A sidewalk, a road, a trail. You are with me, and nothing can destroy me.
Day upon day, my friend, you sit with me in the dark. How did I not notice that we rested upon a mountaintop?
There is nothing left, Lord, but to climb back down to rejoin my fellows, where I will yet be with you.
(Letter #2,222)
