To welcome the Lord into my house is to begin with cleansing— to sweep the dust of long-forgotten corners, and lift each curtain that has hidden the truth.
In closets sealed by fear, I open the boxes— untie the cords of greed and pride, shake loose the dust of vanity, and feed them to the fire of repentance.
To welcome the Lord is to kneel at the threshold, where shoes once waited for forbidden roads. Now I set them aside, and slip on the sandals of purity and grace.
In the wardrobe of my heart, I fold away the garments of deceit and indulgence, the worn fabric of quarrel and lust, and dress myself instead in the bright linen of mercy and peace.
To welcome the Lord is to cleanse the kitchen— to pour away the overflowing cups of desire and excess, and fill the jars once more with the Word that satisfies.
Each mirror in each room must be polished clean, until the stains of envy and complaint are gone— and the naked face of life meets the gaze of grace.
The courtyard, too, must be weeded. Vanity and self-importance must be torn out by the roots, so that tender shoots of truth may grow in their place.
To welcome the Lord is to kindle light in every room, to pour the oil of patience into the weary lamp, and strike the match of prayer against the flint of faith.
At last, I open every door wide. The locks of honor, wealth, and power fall away— and only obedience remains to usher Him in.
Now the Lord dwells wholly within, and my house— once silent and dim— breathes again with His light.
If you look from the right, his face is hard— twisted with something mean and small. But turn to the left, and sorrow shows, the kind that’s forgotten what peace is called.
The earth keeps what it knows best— hunger, thirst, and death beneath. And so we pray with trembling breath, “Let us walk this ground in peace.”
But the ground is never still for long; it splits beneath the surest feet. You are the quake, the breaking song, your grief the fault, your pulse the beat.
We, the hungry, gather grain from fields already stripped and dry. Men and women, children, rain— all wander where the furrows lie.
Don’t run too far; we’ll meet again, when dusk leans low across the plain. In sackcloth rough, with ashes spread, we’ll lift our eyes and bow our heads.
This world’s one tree, from root to crown, already hollowed through and down. And every thought we called our own— was crooked wood, from birth full-grown.
In the garden my mother tended, yellow cucumber blossoms glowed like lanterns. Where petals of covenant fell shyly, the waves of midsummer came rushing in.
She labored beneath the burning sun, her back bent to the Lord’s promise: “As you sow, so shall you reap.”
She unearthed stones, split the tangled roots of wild vines, pulled up weeds, thinned out stray thoughts.
Gathering fluttering lettuce leaves into her basket, I remember the long-haired girl with a ribbon, plucking stars into her chest as frogs sang through summer nights.
She crossed the barley-hunger hills, ran in straw shoes over the winding bends of Hwangdeung-ri, Jeolla— seventy years of paths behind her.
She never turned from the thirst of green sorrow, living a little slower, a little humbler than most.
When ants move their burdens in swarms, she knows the monsoon is near. When the moon wears a halo, she knows tomorrow will burn with heat.
Still, she heeds the Lord’s word: “As you sow, so shall you reap.” And with her hoe, she tills the soil of the heart without rest.
Life floods the garden like a river. Fragrance rises from it like a well.
And when I step into the garden my mother tended, her lifelong prayers bloom into fruit— overflowing the basket in my hands.
Forgive me, Lord, when I pray, “Give me!” yet share nothing of what I have with my neighbor in need.
Forgive me, Lord, when I plead, “Help me!” but never trust Your perfect will— wholly good, wholly kind.
Forgive me, when I gaze upon the Cross without the tearful yoke of love and sacrifice, yet say, “I am willing to bear it.”
Forgive me, when I long to be used by You, but refuse to be broken first into nothingness.
Forgive me, when I cry, “Make me obedient!” yet hold fast to my will, my desires unpierced.
Forgive me, Lord, when I say, “Let me serve You,” but do not receive the freedom Christ has already given.
Forgive me, when I cry, “Lead me!” yet boast in the sight of my own eyes, and not in Yours.
Forgive me, when I ask, “Forgive me!” but block the river of forgiveness that should flow through me.
Forgive me, when I pray, “Use me greatly!” without suffering, patience, or the quiet altar of the heart.
Forgive me, when I ask, “Bless me!” not to inherit heaven’s kingdom, but to gain a little more of the earth.
Forgive me, Lord, when I say, “I give all freely,” yet keep the best for myself, and offer You only what is left.
O Lord— let my prayer become true prayer. Teach me to say “Thank You” for what I have, for all You give. Clothe me in humility, and lift my eyes to heaven to say,
Daily Sauntering 
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