His mercies are new every morning.
I pause and drink under the quiet spout of overflowing mercies.
- Quiet, comforting sounds of Windham Hill's Thanksgiving collection.
- "Mommy, I spelled my name on the computer!" kaissa/
- Tiny hands kneading bisquick dough - forming spirals of cinnamon goodness
At first glance, it may look like a dwelling-place that is less than spectacular. But look again.
- Chubby squirrels scamper with their bounty
- Blood-Red tulips piercing the morning with cheer
- Fragrance of gooey warm-baked goodness
- Laundry, dishes, budget - evidence of a life full with busy blessings
- Small nagging voice so eager to "help"
- Gentle breezes in the grey outside
This place - this morning - is spectacular. Quietly spilling out bounty and goodness and beauty. Beauty that could be taken for dreary clouds, cinnamon mess on floor, muddy kennel to clean. But this morning those things gently sing of Creator. Of deep Peace. Of quiet joy.
I think of my stateside friends who need this morning's daily mercies in a desperate and painful way. And I pray that this quiet bounty will pour upon them. This beauty will comfort them.
Clobber their fear with quiet faith.
My mind turns to another land. A sister's small cottage by the sea. Minister and musician laboring side-by-side in the daily. An aunt's fanciful stories to neice and nephew eyes crowded around the computer. A God who crosses oceans in a breath.
Overflow their day with your bounty, Lord.
Continue to let your bountiful breezes blow through my spirit. Open my eyes, my ears. Open my heart for what you will fill it with today.
His mercies are new every morning.
Add your comment