Outside the wind howls as I survey my domain: on the counter the remains of lunch, a box of band-aids from doctoring a finger, items from yesterday's shopping. On the table some discarded clothing, a puzzle, a dirty plate, a sticky note. On the coffee table a dirty diaper, a bottle of medicine, books, school papers, a box of crayons. Floor littered with kid-made, mom-made, dog-made clutter. I fight the daily feeling that this physical clutter is what matters. I sit on the couch in the little sliver of afternoon sunshine, and I find Malachi's paper.

He pulled it from his backpack the other day, said casually, "Want to see what I did at school today?"

I read in his careful, scrawling, just-learned cursive the words to 2 Chronicles 7:14: "If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land."

"This is very good," I say, still not fully engaged. "Did you all do this together?"

"No, I just found that verse in my book at free time and decided to copy it."

He has my attention. "What made you want to do that?"

"Oh, I just like that verse and I want to hang it in my room to remember it."

"Do you know what this verse means, son?"

"Yeah." Still in that bright, confident, first-grade voice. "It means that if we confess our sins to God and ask for forgiveness, He will forgive us and heal us."

My eyes are filling with tears now. I grab him in a hug, tell him how glad I am that he loves God's word and wants to remember it.

My seven year-old used his free time to copy scripture. While his friends were playing, chattering, or dreaming, he found a verse he liked and wrote it down, just because. And he fully believes that verse, fully expects it to be true.

Once again Malachi is God's messenger to me. All these moments are His. There is grace for every sinner, faith for the smallest child, peace for the most harried mother. The wind is howling outside, but I am sitting in warm sunshine.

The Need for Newness

The new year sneaked in when I wasn't looking. Somewhere in the midst of potty training, diaper changing, dish washing, clutter cleaning, the clock kept turning, bringing the inevitable.

I have always made new year's resolutions and rarely kept any of them. This year I didn't bother, and New Year's Day passed like any other in my life. Why worry about it, since nothing in my life today is any different than it was yesterday? I wake up to the same list of chores, the same routine, the same challenges and fears.

I was wrong. I need newness. We celebrate the ending of the old, the beginning of the new, because we need fresh starts. We need hope. We need to dream, set goals, think about what could be. I need a new journal with fresh, blank pages. I need a calendar with twelve empty months in which to dream and hope and plan.

I need the newness of each day, the renewed promise of a fresh start, another chance.

I am wrong to take newness for granted.

I am wrong not to hope.

I climb out of bed late this morning, greeted with dirty dishes and shouting children and clutter and chaos. Determined to start the day right, I open my Bible randomly.

"O, you afflicted one,
Tossed with tempest, and not comforted,
Behold, I will lay your stones with colorful gems,
And lay your foundations with sapphires.
I will make your pinnacles of rubies,
Your gates of crystal,
And all your walls of precious stones.
All your children shall be taught by the Lord,
And great shall be the peace of your children.
In righteousness you shall be established;
You shall be far from oppression, for you shall not fear;
And from terror, for it shall not come near you." (Is. 54:11-14)

The promises shower down upon me one after the other, breaking in upon all my attempts to be gloomy. My Lord loves the joy of hope. He delights in "wills" and "shalls" and in making all things new.

I will plant my new year's resolutions like seeds of hope, watching to see the faithfulness of God.