Mercy like Dewdrops

Resting with Jesus is refreshing—not a task to accomplish but an invitation to simply be.

I have this mental image of a vast valley floor—wide, green, and bursting with life. The leaves glisten with dew, each droplet a jewel reflecting the soft morning sunlight. The air is thick with the fragrance of fresh earth and new growth, and there is peace in every breath.

But at the edge of the valley, the mountains rise—dark, imposing, stacked one upon another like a great, impenetrable wall. Their peaks are sharp and barren, shrouded in heavy clouds that threaten storm and lightning. There is a sense of danger in their shadows, a reminder of the trials and uncertainties that loom in life.

Yet here, in the valley, there is rest. The dew does not flood or destroy; it nourishes, gently soaking into the soil, sustaining life without force or fury. Dew cannot be gathered like rain; it can only be absorbed, step by step, moment by moment.

Jesus and I walk through this valley, hand in hand. Our bare feet press into the rich earth, our robes trailing in the dampness, drinking in the glistening drops like sponges. The sunlight catches each droplet, refracting it into colors, so that as we walk, we become walking rainbows. There is lightness here, a joy in the simplicity of being present. Life is full, abundant—not weighed down by burdens but carried effortlessly in the presence of mercy.

This is what it means to soak in God’s mercy every morning. To walk in His goodness, to feel the tenderness of His love and the joy of His companionship.

We cannot hoard mercy any more than we can bottle the dew. We can only receive it fresh each day, let it seep into our souls, and carry it within us as we move forward.

"His mercies are new every morning" (Lamentations 3:22-23).

Resting with Jesus is refreshing—not a task to accomplish but an invitation to simply be. To sit beside Him, to walk with Him, to let the dew settle on us without striving.

And in this rest, I notice the difference between striving and surrender. Dewdrops are gentle, compassionate, connected to a deep longing for restoration. I want to change all at once, to be transformed in a moment. I think of the well, deep and abundant, and wonder if drowning myself in it would make transformation immediate. But even at the well, water must be drawn up one bucket at a time. Change belongs to God, not to my efforts. Mercy is not something to be grasped but something to receive.

So I show up. I step forward. I let the dewdrops of grace settle into my being, one by one. And I trust that as I walk this field of mercy, God is gently, surely, making me new.