At 7:39 am on Sunday morning I’m sitting in the plaid chair in the corner of our den.
My eyes and throat are scratchy from a good cry the night before. After a week of early starts and hurt feelings and very public tantrums and new things and failure feelings, a stubbed toe and a broken dryer brought everything spilling out.
Across from me my two youngest niblets of people strum a play guitar with two strings, singing made up songs about morning and games and siblings.
At exactly 7:40 am, the sun just barely peeks over the building across the street and all of the sudden morning light streams bright and straight through our little house. Right from one end to the other.
“Mama! The air is green and yellow,” my girl exclaims with eyebrows sky high and brown eyes shimmer shining. It is and it settles on that one crooked frame and the scraps from handmade heart-shaped paper chains scattered across my grandmother’s fancy table.
Just the night before in my sniffly mess, through gritty entitled teeth and pumping fists, I had wondered aloud. “Do you think? Do you really think that on the 39th day the Israelites believed that manna was still miraculous?” My husband sat graciously taking it in. “No,” he said.
But it didn’t change anything. And it doesn’t change anything. Manna was still miracle. On the first day. On the last day. After months or after years, it’s still the same. Daily bread is still enough and still peck marked by grace and by power.
This is how change starts. How I can finally start to live like truth really is true. Letting grace lead me to see that even if it has been days or months or years, this daily living and waiting? It is still good and perfect and full of miracle and full of God’s unchanging and extravagant love.