Smelling the November roses

I was walking the dog through a lovely neighborhood but not seeing anything, my head bowed and my mind churning over some problem-of-the-day.

All at once I came upon a pink November rose. It was clinging stalwartly and improbably to a branch arcing over the fence along with two or three of its defiant brothers, and fairly thrust itself in my face. I had to stop and smell it, of course. My whole body brightened, as Jonathan's had when after a day of hard battle against the Philistines he "put out the tip of the staff that was in his hand and dipped it in the honeycomb and put his hand to his mouth, and his eyes became bright" (1 Sam.14:27).

There is something about a November rose, for sure. Its sweetness is augmented by the asperity of its surroundings. It is also, in its unlikeliness, a gentle rebuke to my fears, for it reminds me that God can do anything. When we live in past regrets and future hypotheticals, we forfeit the grace that is available only in the present moment's trust.

But see how He loves us even then, and deigns to "satisfy us in the morning with [his] steadfast love" (Ps.90:14). I love the morning. I wish all day were morning. "His mercies are new every morning." And sometimes they just thrust themselves at you in spite of yourself.