The tomato plant on Marlene’s windowsill had shriveled into a brittle tangle of dried stems and brown curls. She hadn't watered it for weeks—hadn’t done much of anything in weeks. The devotional book still lay at the corner of the kitchen table, untouched. Prayers once easy and spilling from her soul had dried up too, like the soil in that pot. Once so alive inside, something had gone quiet. Worse than quiet. Empty.
She sighed and turned away. “What’s the point?” she whispered into the stillness.
Have you been there?
When your soul feels like a neglected garden and every devotional, every worship song, feels like you’re pretending. When guilt stacks on top of apathy and you wonder if God hasn’t moved on without you.
It’s exactly there—there in the lifeless middle—that He speaks.
“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness” (Lamentations 3:22–23, NIV).
Jeremiah, the weeping prophet, penned those words in the middle of despair, watching the destruction of Jerusalem, knowing well the sting of failure, both personal and national. Yet even through tears and dust, he pointed to something astonishing:
God’s mercy does not dry up when you do.
Maybe that sounds too soft. Maybe you feel like you’ve heard that before and it didn’t change anything.
But listen again, just a little closer.
“His mercies are new every morning.”
Not recycled. Not rationed. New.
This isn’t a poetic exaggeration—it’s a lifeline. Real hope for those who’ve stopped hoping. Fresh mercy for those whose hands are too tired to grasp it. God doesn’t offer leftovers of love. He doesn’t crack open some ancient reserve mercy-box and dust off an ounce of grace. He wakes the morning with it. Lays it out like dew on the grass.
There is no tally He keeps of your failures that could outrun the sunrise of His love.
Isaiah put it this way: “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up—do you not perceive it?” (Isaiah 43:18–19).
So if you've shelved your Bible like an unread plant manual… if your prayers have dried out mid-sentence… if shame has hardened around your heart like dry clay—He is still doing a new thing in you.
The word for “new” here doesn’t just mean recent. It means never-seen-before.
That stagnation of soul you’re walking through? It’s not the end of your story. It’s the field where God is planting something only He can grow. He says it’s springing up. Right now. Even in the silence. Even in the stuckness.
Maybe you’ve felt that too—the awful weight of “spiritual failure,” as if everyone else is running hard after God while you’ve barely got the energy to stand. But friend, you’re not disqualified by your dryness. You’re not disowned by your distance.
That plant on Marlene’s windowsill? One quiet morning, she noticed something. A thin green stem curled up near the base of the brittle stalks. Tiny. Fragile. But unmistakably alive.
She hadn’t expected it. She hadn't earned it. But it grew.
The ancient lament of Jeremiah didn’t end in ashes. It sits in Scripture wrapped in verses that say, “Yet this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope…” Maybe today, hope can sound like “yet.” A turn of voice. A whisper of faith. A choice to believe again, even if belief is only a seed.
Don’t wait until you feel resolute. Come to Him where you are—even if all you have are dried-out prayers and an echo of hope. Your Redeemer specializes in resurrection. He raises more than bodies. He raises broken spirits. He revives brittle hearts.
You can start again—not because you’re strong—but because His compassions never end.
That’s not wishful thinking.
The tomato plant on Marlene’s windowsill had shriveled into a brittle tangle of dried stems and brown curls. She hadn't watered it for weeks—hadn’t done much of anything in weeks. The devotional book still lay at the corner of the kitchen table, untouched. Prayers once easy and spilling from her soul had dried up too, like the soil in that pot. Once so alive inside, something had gone quiet. Worse than quiet. Empty.
She sighed and turned away. “What’s the point?” she whispered into the stillness.
Have you been there?
When your soul feels like a neglected garden and every devotional, every worship song, feels like you’re pretending. When guilt stacks on top of apathy and you wonder if God hasn’t moved on without you.
It’s exactly there—there in the lifeless middle—that He speaks.
“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness” (Lamentations 3:22–23, NIV).
Jeremiah, the weeping prophet, penned those words in the middle of despair, watching the destruction of Jerusalem, knowing well the sting of failure, both personal and national. Yet even through tears and dust, he pointed to something astonishing:
God’s mercy does not dry up when you do.
Maybe that sounds too soft. Maybe you feel like you’ve heard that before and it didn’t change anything.
But listen again, just a little closer.
“His mercies are new every morning.”
Not recycled. Not rationed. New.
This isn’t a poetic exaggeration—it’s a lifeline. Real hope for those who’ve stopped hoping. Fresh mercy for those whose hands are too tired to grasp it. God doesn’t offer leftovers of love. He doesn’t crack open some ancient reserve mercy-box and dust off an ounce of grace. He wakes the morning with it. Lays it out like dew on the grass.
There is no tally He keeps of your failures that could outrun the sunrise of His love.
Isaiah put it this way: “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up—do you not perceive it?” (Isaiah 43:18–19).
So if you've shelved your Bible like an unread plant manual… if your prayers have dried out mid-sentence… if shame has hardened around your heart like dry clay—He is still doing a new thing in you.
The word for “new” here doesn’t just mean recent. It means never-seen-before.
That stagnation of soul you’re walking through? It’s not the end of your story. It’s the field where God is planting something only He can grow. He says it’s springing up. Right now. Even in the silence. Even in the stuckness.
Maybe you’ve felt that too—the awful weight of “spiritual failure,” as if everyone else is running hard after God while you’ve barely got the energy to stand. But friend, you’re not disqualified by your dryness. You’re not disowned by your distance.
That plant on Marlene’s windowsill? One quiet morning, she noticed something. A thin green stem curled up near the base of the brittle stalks. Tiny. Fragile. But unmistakably alive.
She hadn’t expected it. She hadn't earned it. But it grew.
The ancient lament of Jeremiah didn’t end in ashes. It sits in Scripture wrapped in verses that say, “Yet this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope…” Maybe today, hope can sound like “yet.” A turn of voice. A whisper of faith. A choice to believe again, even if belief is only a seed.
Don’t wait until you feel resolute. Come to Him where you are—even if all you have are dried-out prayers and an echo of hope. Your Redeemer specializes in resurrection. He raises more than bodies. He raises broken spirits. He revives brittle hearts.
You can start again—not because you’re strong—but because His compassions never end.
That’s not wishful thinking.
