Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer

“The faithful love of the Lord never ends!
His mercies never cease.
Great is his faithfulness,
his mercies begin afresh each morning.”
Lamentations 3:22-23 NLT

These words from the biblical book of Lamentations were written by one who had seen the devastation of his country by enemy invaders. Everything he held dear had been destroyed. People he had known and loved had been killed, relocated, or left behind in weakness.

Jewish tradition suggests the author is Jeremiah. Regardless, the book is so named because it is full of grieving and weeping. Yet what praise!

To praise our God and King in the ashes, the rubble, and the valley is to offer what we will not be able to offer in Heaven. For there, no devastation exists. No tears will fall anew. No regrets will wrench our hearts.

It seems these words of praise beckon us the do the same now in our present days and to remember our great God who has not for one moment forgotten us.

For a beautiful rendition of Lamentations 3:22-23 and an uplifting song of praise, listen to “Morning by Morning,” recorded here by Pat Barrett.

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Reflexively, Cale reassured himself by touching the rifle sheathed beneath his right leg. His revolver rested against his thigh. Not that he expected trouble, but neither would he be unprepared.

Doc took to the loose shale like a big horn sheep, Barlow just as sure-footed behind him. The night slid by degree toward the western mountain peaks, stars winking out to gray in its wake.

At the top, he reined in and Ella came up beside him. Doc blew triumphantly and bobbed his head. Barlow pricked her ears to the east as if listening for the sun’s footsteps.

Ella remained silent, her face trained toward the horizon where a russet thread pulled along its edge.

A wren sang out. Its cousins joined, and soon a chorus filled the cedars and pines around them.

A slow, fiery orange split the seam between earth and sky, and Ella’s breathy oh cinched him again. A hot stain burned into his chest, and grateful that she couldn’t see him clearly, he slid his right hand beneath his vest and rubbed the spot.

The fire bled to gold that bled to pink, and light broke through a low band of clouds, throwing spires into the sky.

“‘If I take the wings of the morning . . .’”

Had he not been holding his breath, he would have missed her voice for the bird song.

She saw it. Really saw it.

How could he go forward from this place without her beside him? Without the one so unlike him who fit him so well. A Change of Scenery, Book 4 of The Canon City Chronicles

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