Such has been my common practice ever since I entered in religion; and, though I have done it very imperfectly, yet I have found great advantages by it. These, I well know, are to be imputed to the mere mercy and goodness of GOD, because we can do nothing without Him; and I still less than any. But when we are faithful to keep ourselves in His holy Presence, and set Him always before us, this not only hinders our offending Him, and doing anything that may displease Him, at least wilfully, but it also begets in us a holy freedom, and, if I may so speak, a familiarity with GOD, wherewith we ask, and that successfully, the graces we stand in need of. In fine, by often repeating these acts, they become habitual, and the presence of GOD rendered as it were natural to us Give Him thanks, if you please, with me, for His great goodness towards me, which I can never sufficiently admire, for the many favors He has done to so miserable a sinner as I am. May all things praise Him. Amen.
I am, in our LORD, yours, &c.
Brother Lawrence speaks from lived experience: keeping God before us in common work—washing dishes, mending clothes—is not a technique but a relationship. When we stay faithful to this presence, something shifts. We stop offending Him partly from fear and partly from a deepening familiarity, a holy ease. The grace we need becomes available not because we perform better, but because we've turned toward the One who sustains us. This is not mystical rapture; it's the ordinary fruit of repeated, humble attention.
Who knows his manhood's strength, Yet still his female feebleness maintains; As to one channel flow the many drains, All come to him, yea, all beneath the sky. Thus he the constant excellence retains; The simple child again, free from all stains.
Who knows how white attracts, Yet always keeps himself within black's shade, The pattern of humility displayed, Displayed in view of all beneath the sky; He in the unchanging excellence arrayed, Endless return to man's first state has made.
Who knows how glory shines, Yet loves disgrace, nor e'er for it is pale; Behold his presence in a spacious vale, To which men come from all beneath the sky. The unchanging excellence completes its tale; The simple infant man in him we hail. The unwrought material, when divided and distributed, forms vessels. The sage, when employed, becomes the Head of all the Officers (of government); and in his greatest regulations he employs no violent measures.
The Tao Te Ching mirrors Lawrence's paradox without naming God: strength that looks like weakness, glory that wears disgrace, the sage who leads without force. Where Lawrence speaks of grace sought through presence, the Tao speaks of virtue arising from non-doing, from returning to the uncarved block. Both resist striving; both trust what works when we stop imposing our will.
"Nevertheless, when I come upon a hard part where the blade meets with a difficulty, I am all caution. I fix my eye on it. I stay my hand, and gently apply my blade, until with a hwah the part yields like earth crumbling to the ground. Then I take out my chopper, and stand up, and look around, and pause, until with an air of triumph I wipe my chopper and put it carefully away."
"Bravo!" cried the Prince. "From the words of this cook I have learnt how to take care of my life."
Meaning that which informs life, sc.…
The cook's mastery—pausing at difficulty, applying gentle pressure, letting the blade yield—mirrors both Brother Lawrence's faithfulness and the Tao's non-forcing. But Chuang Tzu adds something crucial: the physical, bodily knowledge that comes only through intimate, repeated attention to the actual work in front of you, not abstract principle.
All three voices refuse the false choice between passive waiting and anxious striving. Lawrence says presence opens grace; the Tao says humility returns us to our native simplicity; Chuang Tzu shows that mastery emerges when attention becomes so fine it seems effortless. They differ in register: Lawrence names God and prayer; the Tao speaks of returning and virtue; Chuang Tzu stays with the cook's blade and the Prince's life. Yet each insists that the sacred and the practical are not separate—they meet in faithful attention to what is already here.
What is one small, real task before me now where I can practice turning toward presence instead of rushing through?