We are settling into a quiet rhythm, he and I. Early to bed, early to rise, it matters not whether we are healthy, wealthy, or wise, I suppose. We have one another and we have a Savior who is good and does good. Yesterday in our exegesis meeting at work, in preparation for the sermon on Psalm 51, we talked about a God who in His goodness does good—and I cannot leave that alone this morning. I wake next to a husband, we make coffee, he reads and journals on the back porch while I make frittata in a cast iron pan, the dishes are unwashed and we have eaten, he starts his workday six feet from me while I write in my sunny morning nook. No one needs to remind me of the abundant blessings of a good God these days. It is everywhere and I am its best detective.
It has not always been so but I wouldn't trade a single one of those days if I was asked.
This morning my husband takes my hand over breakfast and prays we would be "More gentle," and my heart catches, sure I have somehow wounded him in the past fifteen hours to warrant the adverb. "Have I hurt you?" I ask, when he releases my hand and picks up his fork. "No, not at all," he says, "I just want to pray for an increase of the Holy Spirit."
It is easy to forget the goodness of God in the land of the dead and it is just as easy to forget the goodness of God in the land of the living. I am a goodness detective, but for too many years I have been a darkness detective, certain every comment, every deed, and every action was the swift hand of an angry God.
Oh, He is fierce, don't get me wrong. His anger lasts for a moment, but it is anger just the same. He is not safe, as Lewis said, but He is good. And this is the truth that has hinged every weak and wounded year of my life. This does not feel good but He is good.
I remember this morning that it is not the void of goodness (or of gentleness) that makes us beg for more, but the present indwelling of the Holy Spirit, the good God, who beckons us more and more into His bountiful abundant life.