Writers 
A Psalm for the Ordinary Day
Before the sun climbs high enough to warm the tin roofs,
before the muezzin's call meets the church bell's chime,
You are already awake, Father,
already weaving mercy into the fabric of this morning.
I did not earn this breath I carry,
did not purchase the blood that moves through me still—
it is grace, plain and daily as harmattan dust,
settling on everything I touch and call my own.
Teach me to worship not only in the sanctuary,
not only when the choir lifts its many voices
and the keyboard weeps in worship,
but here, in the marketplace of small decisions,
in the traffic that tests my patience,
in the bills that test my faith.
Let my hands, calloused from ordinary labor,
become instruments of Your uncommon kindness.
Let my tongue, quick to complain,
learn instead the discipline of gratitude.
I think of the prodigal roads I have walked,
the seasons I mistook silence for absence,
yet You were there—
in the quiet hum of the generator at midnight,
in a stranger's unexpected kindness,
in the way dawn always finds a way to break
even after the darkest harmattan night.
Lord, make me faithful in the small things:
the tithe counted honestly,
the neighbor greeted without pretense,
the truth spoken even when silence would be easier.
I do not ask for a life free of struggle—
only for a heart that trusts You through it,
only for eyes that see Your fingerprints
on every ordinary, unremarkable day
You have graciously called mine.
Let my life be a quiet hallelujah,
sung not from a stage, but from the soil
where You planted me to grow.
