08132015_Lisa-JoBaker_ThyFaithfulness

I’m a lifelong Sunday School girl, and I grew  up singing the old hymn, “Great Is Thy Faithfulness. There’s one line that lingers in my head these days as the mornings come crashing down on me, and with them that old, familiar ache of fear, or worry, of not being able to control the future:

“Morning by morning new mercies I see . . .”

I was thinking about that line when I woke up today.

Most mornings when I wake up and stumble to the bathroom to put in my contact lenses and step on and off the scale and then head to the kitchen to figure out how to prepare breakfast without using the leaky sink, I’m not thinking about Christ’s mercies.

I’m thinking about my to-do list.

I’m thinking about my worries and how my hair has more gray in it than I remember from last month. I’m thinking about what we’re going to do if it turns out there isn’t actually a spot for my daughter in the preschool we’re counting on once fall rolls around. I’m googling youtube videos to figure out how to fix the leak underneath our kitchen sink.

My mornings don’t involve a list of God’s mercies, they involve a list of my own worries.

I’m very good at it.

I’m an expert at the quiet panic that paces around my insides as the boys rush by and our little girl tells me she misses her friends.

I can rattle off all my very specific fears and worries without even having to think very hard.

There are all the boxes we still haven’t unpacked after our move last month. The shed and the kitchen projects I’m not sure when we’ll get around to tackling. The new school my boys are starting in less than three weeks and all the school supplies I haven’t bought yet.

There’s the old white minivan with the flat tires that require pumping every morning — the same minivan who long ago said goodbye to any hope of air-conditioning. There are the fish ponds we’re not sure yet how to take care of and the mouse who must have moved in while we were on vacation because the brand new bathroom mat I bought has long shreds chewed off it — shreds that now trail up and down the halls.

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I can sit in the house of my dreams and miss it all because I’m so busy counting worries.

Maybe you can relate? If so, keep reading with me over here on (in)courage today.

 

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