A year ago I knew that mercy was the same color blue as a clear Lhasa sky and sounded exactly like the tinkling cow bells from the ditch outside my window.
I've learned a thing or two about mercy since.
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Mercy feels like a low cloud of fog on a cool morning and takes your breath away like the beginnings of a green or purple tint to mountains you've memorized as brown and you have to strain and blink to make sure you're not just wishing it so.And mercy tastes like tea poured from dented thermoses into questionable cups and fish hot pot so spicy your stomach burns in anticipation. It smells like a rainfall and cut grass and a breeze rolling directly off of snow capped mountains.
And I know that my Father is merciful when my students write essays to me entitled: Take Care Teacher, and words get lodged in my throat and I can't say them and I'm overwhelmed with stillness knowing that I don't have to because my face communicates perfectly the state of my heart.
And I know His mercy is deep when my boxes are packed by peace and I don't feel rushed though time continually mocks me like an arrogant child and the birds sitting on the power line running frighteningly close to my window sing as if only to me.
And I know that His mercy is extravagant when I think about the cold, dark days He's brought me out of and the way He fixes it so that I am reminded that He is still at work in my students and friends lives and the process is slow because step by often weary step is the only way to walk through life.
My Father's mercy runs down my face like tears, redemptive, like watermelon juice, sweet and cool, like a shower that cleans my soul. It fills my ears like a whisper, tender, like wind in the trees, gentle, like a symphony that plays the story of my walk. It fills the space around me like air, ever-present, like perfume, fragrant and light, like a warrior that encircles me with protection.
His mercy is a jungle, an ocean, an umbrella, a boat, a tower. It is shade, sunshine, and rain. It is the perfect amount of spice on your one kuai bag of fried potatoes and a fresh loco momo. His mercy was, is, and always will be.
Oh yes, when my days are full and my mornings are free and steam eases my mind as it slips off my tea I know with all my being that He's merciful to me.
