If His mercies are new every morning, does that mean I need more mercy, since I am continually up in the small hours? He needs to get me up and moving and pour them over me again?
It’s just before 4 a.m.
Restless, I came out of the bed, just before 3. I’d gone to bed around 11. I was cold and there was not enough cover on the bed, so I struggled to sleep. It’s not really the warmth as much as the weight of the covers.
Maybe I just need to be awake without anyone else to attend to. That said, a young lady’s FB has been thoroughly investigated. I was once told not to think at night. That’s sound advice.
I’m sitting here having the feeling I’m not putting something together. But that’s not it. I’m waiting for something. In the wait time, I am second-guessing. Like we do. I don’t need to; I’m right. No matter where the night thinking takes me.
There is a poetry to this coffee-less, sleep deprived, hormone driven, running on emotional deficit life.
There’s a grace that pours out on the dirty house, dirty dogs, dirty laundry and dirty minds.
There is a song in the night. Not the bird outside my window. The song of a heart unseen. The song of a dream deferred. The song a dead girl sings to the invisible woman.
In the watches of the night, the love of God dances in waltz time with what’s left of her–me; before a mirror that reveals the grit and grime, the mayhem and magic, the love and longing. The failure and the waste and the shame. The wrong. That will never be put right. The perfect heart offerings refused. The forced lies. The faked “fine”.
He meets me here, to bid me wait. To let me rest against Him. To build me up for the next leg. To balm the burn of rejection. To touch me in the shattered place.
He seems to have created this for Himself. And comes in the small hour to wrap Himself in it. Leaving it stained with His mercy and smeared with His hand prints. Leaving a place for my eye to fall, and remember.
When the daylight comes.