Thursday, November 19, 2020

What is in the distance? What lies between here and there?

I have arisen, and at the end of the day I will rest. This day is clay, all I have.

Let me fashion objects of use that may awaken others. Let me give away all I make; none will last the night, and I will rise reborn each day with nothing.

What is in the distance? What lies between here and there?

(Letter #2,140)

Wednesday, November 18, 2020

Trouble, trial, worry, woe – they visit me here in my rooms. There will be no victory, for I have given up the battle.

Dawn comes. Let me walk away from these things.

Take away my difficulties, that others may see a pathway out of their own thickets.

(Letter #2,139)

Tuesday, November 17, 2020

Water and wind whip. I hide and delay in my cabin. I fear to see the judgment that may come.

Through this door will I find wasteland or bounty? Will I recognize what I see? Unruly vines grow, yet they bear sweet fruit.

Lord, grant me willingness to open the door behind which I crouch.

(Letter #2,138)

Monday, November 16, 2020

I dimly recall when I have been at war with myself, torn between desires. A prisoner, roped to a stake in the gale. A sapling oak.

The wind blew and blew, the leaves flew off, here I stand in peace. My shape is my shape, how could I be another?

I live in a world of gentle breezes, now that my branches are bare.

(Letter #2,137)

Sunday, November 15, 2020

Of what will today’s miracle consist? A kind word where I needed it? A reprieve from heavy obligation?

Let me see you even in the small things, Lord. You look back at me in the faces of my neighbors and family. You speak in their voices.

We already live in the heavens.

(Letter #2,136)

Friday, November 13, 2020

How is it that I come to you so reluctantly, and fallen, yet you comfort me and make me well with sweet balm?

How undeserved are these gifts.

Let me then, Lord, live a life of thanks. Let my selfish aims fall away.

I will come to you.

(Letter #2,134)

Thursday, November 12, 2020

I may find treasure today, yet still, too, the winds howl. Shall I be eager and expectant, or fearful and sullen?

Lord, I easily find reason for any sentiment. I am the author of my own response. Let my day, then, be writ in love.

(Letter #2,133)