When mercy looks different

Lamentations 3:23 – Image Source
I sat on the couch yesterday evening while, unbeknownst to me, the carrots and broccoli burned. It was a flop of a day, and I felt like a flop of a mama. At one point, the girls played outside while I folded laundry – and watched Call the Midwife. I could hear them. Someone said something about spilling bubbles all over the place. But no one was crying, so I ignored it all and watched women give birth the old school way. 
The last month of pregnancy. Ick. I am not good at much of anything. Not at motherhood, not at housekeeping, not at diligence, not at friendship, not at time with the Lord, not at follow-through, not at walking, not at sleeping, not at faith, not at waiting.
I am not good. 
As I sat there, belly high and intensely aware that my four year old was pretty effectively being the parent in the house, I heard the soft whisper of The Helper, “New mercies in the morning, Em.” And He’s right. He always is, but I woke up this morning and still, I am not good. 
We are in the waiting zone. We are waiting for a house to sell, for a baby to arrive, for a house to buy, for a new life to begin. Waiting and waiting and waiting. And the Sunday shine has begun to wear off of the call. For a little bit there we were caught up in the whirlwind of God’s movement, but now that things have slowed, I find myself wading into the “What if’s?” The age old, classic move of the serpent – “Did God really say…?” I am amazed and disappointed at how quickly I get there – to the place of questioning. 
Seriously, though – I am not good. 
Just moments ago, I threw bowls of cereal in front of the girls and when Adelle asked my why I was acting mean, I told her to stop asking me questions. I am at the end of myself, and I find that when I get there, or I see it approaching, I feel small. I want to run fast and hard to a place of quiet rest, but where would that be? What does that even look like right now? Why does it feel so hard to stay in the thing?
I feel small when I am not good, and I’m pretty sure there’s a mess of muck to sort through in that statement. 
Am I still learning what it is to rest in God’s grace? To relish the fact that I am not good because He is good in me? To hang on to the knowledge that I am not good at waiting, but He is lovingly helping me learn patience – and there is a beautiful sort of faith in that?
His mercies are new every morning – sometimes they just look different than I thought they would. Sometimes my eyes are tired and just want to see the insides of my eyelids for a very, very long time.

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