Something I want to be more intentional about is seeing all the little joys of life as gifts of God. About thanking Him for them and letting them point me back to His goodness. I guess that’s what I’m trying to do with these posts.
Even if I’ve been sitting in bed on my Kindle for the past half-hour, I’m still blinking and a little bleary-eyed when I go out to give the chickens their water in the morning. It’s odd that, for me, the most beautiful hour of the day should be paired with the weight of the five-gallon dispenser, the slosh of water across the ground, the sand making its way into the designated “coop shoes.” I trudge to the faucet and feel the crisp early-morning breeze, and across the pond the sky looks like cream behind the cypress trees.
I unexpectedly got a new laptop, an answer to many prayers (not all of which were in selfless faith; behold God’s mercy). And now, finally, my desk has taken on the calling for which it was created. No longer a receptacle of the many and varied objects I see fit to leave there, it holds my tiny little laptop, two speakers, and a mouse (along with the overfull desk organizer, lamp, and fishtank sans fish). The window behind it looks east; I’ve started opening my blinds, and the morning sun pierces the depths of my tea so it seems to glow from within.
“His mercies are new every morning,” said Jeremiah, and it’s true. Sometimes it’s hard to see that, when disappointments both large and small are tapping you on the shoulder multiple times a week. And sometimes He reveals His love in lavish, unexpected ways; like when you think you’re in trouble, and end up getting a computer instead, or like when you’re home alone and get an email that your article is getting published somewhere you didn’t think it ever would. Maybe – no, almost certainly – all these things are preparation for bigger joys and bigger disappointments in the future. But that doesn’t mean that this, right now, isn’t important too. In the rush toward adulthood and far-off dreams, don’t leave the moments behind.