He gives…

I see my room. I see a book on the floor, an empty mug on the bedside table. Slowly I become aware of myself. Slowly the memory clears in my mind. I remember the cup of tea, the book that I was reading. I rub my eyes several times and reach around for my glasses.

He gives me life. He gives me sleep. He gives me every new day. Every morning, as I wake up, he provides.

I turn the kettle on and the noise rises to a roar that is always slightly too loud for this time of morning. I wander around the kitchen, randomly opening a few cupboards until I remember that my bread is, surprisingly, in the bread cupboard. Putting the bread in the toaster I realise the kettle has boiled. I reach for a Le Cruset mug, vaguely aware of how middle class I seem right now, throw in a Yorkshire Tea bag and pour in the boiling water. Too much. My cup overflows.

He gives me water. He gives me food. He gives me a home. He gives me fancy mugs. He gives me more than I can ever expect. But most of all, he gives me himself. As I raid my room in search of  my Bible, I remember this wonderful truth. I remember that he provides.

Keys? Check. Money? Check. Phone? Check. Jumper, coat, gloves? Check, check, check. Helmet… Where’s my helmet? By the door of course – I’m too forgetful to store it anywhere else. Balancing my bike with one leg, I reach for the door and, as it opens, feel the immediate impact of the cool air as I breathe, and am thankful for my mum-made coat.

He gives me every breath. He gives me the warmth of my clothes. He gives me a place in this bustling city. He gives me means to travel, and the safety too, legs to walk with and pedals to turn. He gives me strength. He provides.

I take a seat in my seminar, overheating from the slightly too rushed cycle in. I get out my notebook and the book I should have read and try to read a few pages before the tutor asks us all for our opinion on the text. After a vague comment, I sit quietly. And sometimes, occasionally, I surprise myself by making a contribution to the discussion.

He gives me work. He gives me purpose. He gives me mercy for when I have chosen not to do that work. He gives me the ability to think, the ability to read, the ability to talk. He provides.

I arrive five minutes late. I quickly lock up my bike, take off my helmet and stumble into the café, edging around the queue, searching for the familiar face. There. In the back corner. A comfy looking chair is saved for me.

He gives me friendship. He gives me community. He gives me a family. He gives me a church family. He gives me joy and laughter, shoulders to lean on and hands to hold. He provides.

Back in my pyjamas and my head hits the pillow. I feel the exhaustion of a day that, from an outsider’s view, really wouldn’t look exhausting. I think about my Father in Heaven and try to pull words together to thank him for the day.

He gives me rest. He gives me comfort. He listens to me. He gives me his attention, though this is not what I deserve. He gives me his love. He gives me his forgiveness for the moments that I conveniently missed out here. He gives me his son. He gives me Jesus, and his finished work on the cross. He gives me a saviour who died in my place so that I could become a child of God. He gives me hope in this dark night. 

He says ‘ I provide, I provided my son.’