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  • Sonya Leigh Anderson

He's Generous with Me

A beautiful thing happened this week, a gift from God. It started while we were still at the townhouse, last days of sharing space with parents, and I was praying. My morning rhythm— coffee, Bible, sharing thoughts with Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. At some point asking, palms extended, “Who can I pray for today?”

And He tells me. Clear answer, a name. An acquaintance. And I pray. Then, sensing another prompting. I send a text. Checking in. How are you doing? Seconds later comes an answer. She, too, had been praying. Asking for counsel. His or another. My text, His answer. Sweetest gift, twice grace.

Days later, we are face-to-face, sharing stories, shaking our heads in holy wonder. Moments like these erase trace of doubt. How could He not know us? Intimate Father. How could He not care?

Now, midweek, I wake, same bed, new location. Faint glow of almost morning. I tiptoe past sprawled dog and dozing husband. Coffee brewing. Wrapped in blanket, I crack a window to frigid breath of almost winter. Open Bible. Begin again.

What to do with all this Goodness? Sun bursts through trees, illuminating water, and all this is for me? Everywhere reminders of heart’s desires, and I wouldn’t have dared to ask for gifts like these. And I am reminded. The One I greet every morning, is generous with me.

I read a Psalm, a Gospel, portion of letter. My husband rouses, lights a fire. I listen to geese honking, embers crackling. My dog half-barks, still wary of this unexpected space and its new noises. I pray for my once-acquaintance, newest friend. My cellphone chimes, I let it be. Sometime later, I rise to check it. An old friend, asking questions, making plans. I reply, and then, eye catches last night’s text from a daughter-in-law, out-of-state. And I click the link to yet another gift of grace.

His voice, again. This time, in poem.

For Prolonged Stillness

there is more life to be lived.

you feel the pulse in the morning wind.

you long to grasp the wind’s long tail

and leave this place, with full exhale.

but in the middle of the season

as leaves fall to the ground

toward longer, indefinite stillness,

something within you

starts to let go,

and you return from forethought back into

what the soul deeply knows:

you are free

you are free.

let your exhales be

what they need to be.

let them leave your body

at whatever pace...


as you wait.

it's okay.


oh, how beautifully and wonderfully

you are well on your way,

even as you wait.

the stillness is teaching you

more than you ever expected.

slow down and notice: you are still being directed.

-Ngozi Musa

And I say it again. He is generous with me.

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