Unfailing, unfailingly.
In the little things.
How he remembers those small questions I ask, that sing like a tea kettle on the stove. Even those small questions that I forget as soon as they leave my lips.
Two nights ago, I asked if he could bring me to a plaid jacket that would scare away the winter winds, one warm and ready for spontaneous living. Yesterday, there she was, in a plastic bag beside my bed. While I was scrubbing scorched potato from a soup pot, my ma had climbed into my attic to leave her there.
No doubt God was behind this.
If he is unfailing in the little things, endlessly showing delight in me, endlessly wanting my delight, why am I so afraid to trust him with the big things? There is no one who could ever deserve more trust.
My faith is so small.
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