His mercies are new every morning.

It’s a good thing, because by the time my head hits the pillow at night, I’m sure I’ve drained them dry.

Something about being supine that lets the troubles of the day just wash over. No vertical stance to defend against, one by one they march across my head. The failures of the day, big and small. The fears too.

So I fall to sleep fearful or fighting. Lately my sword is giving thanks. As fast as the fears flood over, I counter with gratitude. It’s a strong weapon. You should try it.

But come the morning, His mercies are new. And I’m so glad.

Like manna they fall, the day’s supply, just as curious a provision. And like their namesake they come with uncertainty. The literal translation of manna . . . “What is it?”

“What will I do? How will I do? What is the answer?”

In the face of every circumstance, if I ask and receive, I am supplied.

This is certain.

This morning it came even curiouser.

Sleeping in too late, I start the day already behind. In need of a little quiet before a packed schedule commences, I try to distract Sam, the only one up yet, with a book.

He finishes reading just as I sit down to my coffee and an article I hope might feed and strengthen me for the day. My own attempt to make manna.

He suggests we wake everyone else up. “It’s too late for them to be sleeping.” Ignorant of my total exploitation of the fact that his three teenage siblings would sleep till afternoon if I let them. Ignorant of my need for a little peace.

Then he asks if I want to play a card game, and inside I laugh. His siblings are old enough, in tune enough with my emotional state, to sense when I am overwhelmed. To know better than to ask. Not Sam. 

I’m here. You’re here. Let’s play.

I pause. Too long. Why does it take so much faith to play cards. To turn away for twenty minutes from the tyranny of the urgent to enjoy my youngest, who won’t stay ignorant too much longer and will know better than to ask me to play cards too late on a weekday morning before I’ve had my coffee in the face of a packed schedule and all the other “oh, so important” tasks of the day.

By grace I say yes. We play. He laughs and sings and is way too loud and hyper for a late weekday morning only half way through a cup of coffee.

And I feel my soul’s hunger sating. And I laugh and tell him to sing quieter. And I look at his funny face.

“What is it?”

This morning, my manna and His mercy is cards with Sammy.

A very good thing.

a repost

I’m joining Emily and other talented & imperfect writers over here today