She hides her face
It seems too good
For Your embrace to find her
And say, My dove, show me your form
For your form is lovely
Your mercy rains, your mercy comes
Your mercy falls
And it rises with the sun
It's new every morning
It's good enough for me
New mornings. This is what I'm thankful for today, as I sit and write, look through windows at the world outside this coffee shop, wait for all to wake. This is not just "another day, another dollar." This is a new morning.
Everything that happened yesterday - good, bad or indifferent - isn't carried over to this day. The slate is clean, the slate is fresh. I wake this morning, tired, yes, but here is the wonder I stumble through with eyes scrunched ninety nine percent of all my mornings: I wake.
An elderly woman with perfectly curled hair walks up to the counter yesterday at work, a bag of coffee beans in hand for me to grind. "How is your day?" I ask.
She replies, "My day is fantastic, for an old woman," laughter punctuating woman, as if she's enjoying a private joke. "I'm here, up and about, breathing, after all." She winks at me, eyes full of mischief. I'm gonna be ninety years old this month."
"Wow, that's great, I hope you're going to throw a big party."
She is. Dinner, wine, friends. Her voice trails at friends, remarking that none of her friends from high school or college are still alive. We talk about how hard that is, to outlive friends and loved ones. But the conversation ends with her saying this birthday will not be like a funeral. It's a celebration. I tell her ninety is certainly worth celebrating, and admire her gumption as she waves goodbye.
A nearly ninety-year old woman knows something I take for granted most days. That having a new morning is not something to take for granted. It's a gift, a mercy, falling like rain, rising like the sun.
Thank you, God, for new mornings and new mercies.