I was once young.
Now I am older,
and wondrously, sweetly caught up
in first-love affection toward the Lord.
Not because our relationship is new,
nor because I’ve earned such connection,
but because of our long, shared years.
Years marked by His steadfast kindness,
through heavenly heights
and sorrow’s depths,
through frenzied days
and late-night pause.
I remember the browned pages
of my first Bible,
highlighted and lavishly notated.
The mornings launched
by steam rising from coffee
and journaled thanksgiving.
Candlelight gently framing the darkness
of my devotional nook.
I am not alone in this.
The saints before me sang it.
The poets penned it.
The preachers proclaimed it.
Their echoes are my inheritance.
Unsearchable riches of His grace,
not stored in vaults,
but scattered like wildflowers
across the fields of every day.
Grace I rejoice in.
Grace I proclaim today.
Not as a scholar,
but as one beloved.
Not as a performer,
but as one found.
and as one forever beloved.
(A testimony I offer to take just a moment to consider today.)
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