Introduction: A Life of Small Love

I have loved The Practice of the Presence of God for over thirty years. It’s a slim book. Unassuming. Tucked into the back corners of shelves or shared quietly between friends. But once it finds you, it stays. Not because it dazzles or demands, but because it makes room—for breath, for nearness, for God.

Brother Lawrence was not a theologian or preacher. He was a cook. A sandal repairman. A wounded soldier who limped for most of his life and lived in obscurity, tucked behind the monastery walls. And yet, his words have endured because he lived something we ache for: a faith that did not require spectacle, only presence. A quiet, steady love that could stand in the kitchen and whisper prayers between pots and pans.

This work is not a formal book he wrote. It’s a collection—four conversations recorded by a friend, and a series of letters Brother Lawrence sent to those seeking counsel. There’s no structure, no grand theology. Just fragments of a life shaped by attentiveness. Just the quiet voice of someone who learned to lean into God not only in prayer, but while washing dishes, limping through errands, and waiting in silence when prayer felt dry.

I’m returning to this work now—not only to revisit it, but to open it into more accessible language. To carry it gently forward without losing its heart. This is a joy and a kind of reverence for me—to walk slowly with Brother Lawrence again, and invite others to join.

We’ll begin soon with the first of his letters—each one a small ember, still warm, still steady.

A Simple Practice: Midday Return

Brother Lawrence did not live with a schedule of spiritual performance. He lived inside a posture of return.

Noticing. Re-turning. Beginning again. Always beginning again.

You don’t need hours of silence. You don’t need perfect stillness. You need only the willingness to pause in the middle of what is already happening.

Try this, right where you are:

• Stop for one full breath.

• Place your hand on your chest or your belly.

• Say gently, “God, I am here. And You are too.”

• Then go on. Folding clothes. Stirring soup. Writing the next thing.
  Let it all become your prayer.

Not because you’ve gotten it right.
Not because you feel holy.
But because love is near—and willing to be found.