Another Dawn
Author’s Note:
Last Sunday morning, I sat in a church pew and listened to my Reverend preach about prayer.
He told us about a man who intentionally committed himself to praying for his friends who did not believe in Christ. He didn't simply pray for them in passing. He faithfully brought them before God, trusting Him with their lives and believing that God could reach them in ways he never could.
Something about that stayed with me.
I left church thinking about the people in my own life whom I love deeply. Family. Friends. People I would do almost anything for. These are people who don't know Christ.
So this is my prayer for them:
That they would come to know Him. And I can imagine these people I love making beautiful believers. Not perfect people. But people who know where their hope is. Then I heard a song about loss, longing, and the things we wish we could get back. And from there, this poem began.
I wish you could see what I see.
Not because I think faith
would give you an easier life.
It won't.
Christianity does not promise
that nothing will break.
It does not promise
that people won't leave,
that prayers will always be answered
the way you ask,
or that grief will pass you by.
It teaches you
that you were never meant
to carry those things alone.
There is someone bigger
than both of us.
Someone to lean on
when you cannot hold yourself up.
Someone to trust
when the road makes no sense.
Someone who remains
when everything else changes.
And I've looked at you
and thought,
You would make
such a beautiful believer.
Not perfect.
Beautiful.
You have known enough darkness
to understand light.
You’ve carried enough
to finally set something down.
You’ve spent years
trying to save yourself
and might one day discover
you were never asked to.
Then one night
I was listening to a song.
It was about loss.
About the things
we spend our lives trying to recover.
A person.
A place.
A version of ourselves.
A time when everything
still felt possible.
And somewhere in the middle of it,
it dawned on me.
We spend so much of our lives
trying to get back
what we cannot have again.
We look behind us
so often
that we forget to notice
what is in front of us.
Because yesterday
does not return.
Morning comes,
but it does not come backward.
The sun rises
on a different day.
And maybe that is the mercy.
The gift was never
getting your old dawns back.
The gift
was being given another.
Another day
to rest in a victory
you did not win.
Because there was a victory.
Jesus stepped into
the darkness
you spend your life
trying to outrun.
He carried
what you could not carry.
Suffered
what you could not suffer.
And went into the grave
and did not stay there.
And when He walked out,
death had been defeated.
That changes the morning.
Because now
when you wake up,
you are not waking up
to try again
at being good enough.
You are waking up
because mercy
has found you again.
I think about you.
The person I love.
The one who has learned
to “survive” without Him.
Who says
“I’m doing fine”
because you've learned
not to ask anyone
to carry what hurts.
Who wonders
why something still feels missing.
I wish you could see
what I see.
Not a God
who promises you
a life without pain,
but a Savior
who promises
He will not leave you in it.
A faith
that teaches you
where to take the questions.
A promise
that even in loss,
you are not without hope.
You may look at your life
and think you simply made it
through another night.
But you did not make
the morning.
You received it.
You did not create
the breath in your lungs.
You received it.
You did not earn
the mercy waiting for you
when you opened your eyes.
You received it.
So the question
is no longer,
How do I get back
what I lost?
The question becomes,
What will I do
with what I have been given?
Another morning.
Another breath.
Another day.
Not promised.
I don't want
to waste it.
And neither should you.
I want to notice.
The people still here.
The people I still have time
to love.
The people I still have time
to pray for.
And yes,
I want to pray for you.
Because I cannot make you believe.
I cannot force your heart
toward Him.
I cannot explain the Gospel
so perfectly
that you suddenly understand.
But I can love you.
I can pray.
I can hope.
And I can trust
the One who loved me
before I knew
how to love Him.
So when another morning
finds you,
I hope you stop.
Just for a moment.
Before you reach
for your phone.
Before you begin
the list of things
you must do.
Before yesterday
comes rushing back
with everything
you wish had been different.
Look outside.
There is the light again.
You are still here.
And if you ever find yourself
asking me,
So what do I do?
If you're willing
to ask me that question,
I will tell you.
Look toward Him.
Praise Him for the breath.
Praise Him for the morning.
Praise Him for unknown seasons.
And when the night comes again,
Wake up for the dawn.
It won’t be wasted.
Another dawn.
Another mercy.
And if you're willing
to ask me what to do
with it,
I will tell you.
Praise Him.
