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My husband opens the cabinet, “Oh, we have bread!” like it’s the greatest joy on earth.

I’ve cooked us breakfast. Simple.

Bacon, scrambled eggs with a touch of heavy cream and sharp cheddar.

He contemplates the fig preserves. The jar lid sealed with the sticky juice of fruit, gritty as the lid is turned to open, figs sugary and rich line the sides.

“Should these be still good?” He asks.

“I’ve been eating them, but there’s a new jar of blueberry in the cabinet.”

So, he opens it up. “Man, there’s a lot of blueberries in here.”

He tells me three times. Fresh bread in the cabinet and blueberry preserves like his grandma’s, these things  have set the course his day.

I woke later than usual. My day is open.

I have seven or so blank canvases and thoughts I need  to pull together into sentences, paragraphs; perhaps, a chapter.

My prayer, bedside, before I made the breakfast with fresh  bread and blueberries…

Lord, thank you for this day. For chances to decide how to fill my day. Make me more open to seeing the me you see.

I give you my day and I’ll remember to remember that this day, this life is from you and for you. Because of mercy, Amen.

The mere thought that God wants to make me holy, sees the potential in me to be holy.

Sees the possibility of his idea of me, his plan for me lining up close together!

The truth of this astounds me.

Me, unworthy. He, unrelenting.

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I read from Jeremiah and I think then, “What are the plans for me Lord, the ones you call declarations?”

Almost noon now, I decide to taste the blueberries, so I have some toast.

I’m content in the day’s slow unfolding.

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 Blueberry preserves from a pretty jar, buttery toast and the chance to listen, to know even just a little more clearly, God’s plans for me.

One thought on “Saturday, opening slowly

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