Each morning I’m greeted by the happy-looking flowers of a strange plant that grows outside of my door. Bright -- but not dark -- purple, they face outward and upward, smiling at me, my cat, and whatever else happens by. It’s grown larger since we moved here, and it took us quite a while to identify it as a weed. It’s the happiest, prettiest weed I’ve ever seen, and more than that, it does the strangest thing.
All day long the flowers stay bright and fresh, looking strong and healthy. By evening they begin to fall. They don’t wither, they just fall, and their petals fade into the ground so quickly that by dark there is no evidence that they existed. If I look very hard, I might be able to see one lying on the ground, colorless and impossibly delicate.
The plant sits and waits, and by the next morning the flowers are back again, shining and happy as ever.
When I looked at them this morning, I found a great comfort. I know they’re going to be back tomorrow, the next day, and the day after that. They’ve never failed to bloom. I’ve learned to rely on that.
I think it’s helped me to see God’s mercies in the same way: daily. Enough for the hour. The minute. The moment. Not that He’s going to run out of mercies, or that He can’t douse on us mercies to last us all year or a decade, but there is something special about this renewal with Him -- about trusting Him enough to accept what He’s giving us now.
Today.
And then, tomorrow. We know that we’ll have what we need then. He’ll give it to us. He’s promised.
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