It is inevitable that the exhaustion and frustration lead to a place of depletion and cheek-soaked despair. Sitting in the veiled half-light, the heavy sigh of dread facing another day, I whisper the learned practice of “Mercy, mercy.” It is all I know to say.
It is this whispered cry that daily reminds me and is my strength; for in it I am reminded of all that I have received and all that I possess to give. In this word is the promise of this new day, and in it is the strength and the power that has manifested in this decaying flesh. I grumble and groan, though these complaints are misdirected. My circumstances veiled in the glory of each opportunity. The frustrations are grace gifts to practice the mercy that washes over me, wave after wave.
I groan at the momentary and light affliction because I long for something so much deeper. It is the person and place of heaven, my home. Home is where He is and I can be there now, like looking at a picture or the smell of a scent. But one day I will be there in full, and for this I groan, I long and I cry, “Mercy.”