Jane Johnson - Mercy like Morning: Discovering Truth in Seasons of Waiting

To say that this book was a labor of love is, quite possibly, the most extreme kind of an understatement. It has taken a village to see this book-babe through her gestation, and its very existence comes with the most grateful and humble thanks to:

Shawna, your friendship always was and will forever be absolutely irreplaceable to me. Thank you for leading me to your well and then teaching me to dig my own.

Josh, your unwavering faith is what kept me grounded those ten years. And your unending love and support throughout this process kept me going when I wanted to quit. Thank you for loving me the way you do. Our love story is my most favorite.

The Banasek and Johnson families, for believing in us as we chose to do the crazy thing.

Emily M., Emily W., Jaimee, Jill, Krista, Kristen, and Selena, for holding my weary arms up daily and battling on your knees in prayer on my behalf.

Mandy, for sticking your neck out for me. Kara, for getting up before dawn with me.

Kristen, Tiffany, and Mindy, for being obedient to share your dreams and visions and breathing life into my waiting-sails.

Hannah and Karen, for showing me the ropes and never tiring of my questions.

Don, for always having my back.

Shelby, for sharing our crazy story. Kathleen, for reaching out and cheering me on. Janelle, for bringing my (very) particular design vision for this book to life. And to the entire Harvest House team for investing in me.

And to the Lordmy God, and my Kingfor meeting me faithfully at our morning perch. For continually whispering hope. For anchoring me tightly into the depths of You. And for never letting go. I love how You love me. And I will never tire of the way Your Spirit speaks to me.

JANE JOHNSON is a writer, designer, photographer, speaker, and Scripture-digger who is caught in a passionate love affair with the Word of God. She lives on a tropical island in the middle of the Pacific with her overly handsome husband and perfect miracle babe.

Thousands do life with her on her website, where you can find more Bible studies, devotionals, photographic chroniclings, and almost-daily writings: janejohnson.com.

T he door at the back of the room opened slowly. The subtle movement caught my eye, and I glanced over in the subconscious way that you do to see who is coming in. The dining-hall-turned-tabernacle was filled to capacity, and Shawna snuck in quietly, taking her place at the back of the room as her husband stood at the front, teaching.

She was only four years older than me, but it might as well have been fourteen. The married-with-a-baby life stage feels light-years away when youre a single college student still trying to figure out what to do with your life.

Shawna was tall, blonde, and strikingly beautiful, with the kind of personality that drew you in like a magnet. She made people feel important. Seen. Treasured, even. She was one of those women whom everyone wanted to know, myself included. And as that Tuesday night Bible study wound down, I made my way to the back of the room. Her baby sat on her lap, cheeks round and full, brown eyes large and inquisitive. Id always been drawn to babies. And I couldnt help but love on hers.

Our small-talk conversation meandered its way around to the upcoming fall retreat. The same retreat that was held every year, a few hours east in the Central Oregon mountains. And by the time Shawna and I parted ways, we had a plan to meet up there and grab a latte together.

A FEW WEEKS later, I stood in Shawnas kitchen, looking at photographs on the refrigerator as she expertly pulled shots from the espresso machine in the corner. The motor hummed and the caramel-colored liquid trickled out. She poured it into a cup of ice before topping it off with a swirl of canned whipped cream and a quick finish of sprinkled cinnamon.

Handing the glass to me and keeping one for herself, she led me into the living room and we took our perch on the well-worn, deep purple couch. Kaleb was stirring in his crib upstairs, not yet asleep. And Shawna began asking the kind of questions you ask someone in the throes of a brand-new discipleship-based friendship.

Where are you from?

Do you have any siblings?

What is your major?

Tell me your life story.

This happened once a weekthis sharing of learned life lessons. Week by week, we sat there swallowed up in her couch, reading different parts of the Bible alongside commentaries for explanation and insight and application. Shawna knew well that she didnt have to be a Bible teacher in order to disciple-teach.

Natural conversation followed. The simplest ones that always lead to the deeper ones. The ones that have grit and meaning.

The ones that stick to your bones.

Dig your well, Shawna said one day. I had been lamenting my struggle through singleness when the pastors wife taught me her most important life lesson.

It was a reference from Psalm 84:6 and the people who pilgrim-pass through the Valley of Baca and make it a springor, as it can also be translated, a well. The pilgrims traveling through drew water from that spring-well before continuing on their way.

Dig your well for yourself, she said, and also for the people who follow along after you. And do it now, while you are single and can dig a little bit deeper and linger a little bit longer. She had a point. I really had nothing else to do but pass the hours drinking coffee, studying for exams, working my part-time job, and dreaming of how the rest of my life would shape up.

Shawna had been digging her own well for years with regular quiet times, letting God fill it with the water of His Word. And on those afternoons, I sipped her handmade iced coffee and drank from her dug-out-well wisdom.

Of all the things she taught me, that was what stuck. To dig downand dig deep. Every day, coming to Gods presence whether or not I wanted to, whether or not I had the time or the inclination. In the good days and the ones full of tears. Dig in and dig down and dig deep into His Word. So that when life got busy, and there was marriage and a mortgage and little ones at my morning-feet, I could draw from my dug-out-daily well.

And when I walked through the desert, I could drink from it.

I MET JOSH on a Tuesday evening in the spring of 2001. We stood outside Arnold Dining Hallan ordinary, single-story cinder block building that sat on the southeast corner of the Oregon State campus. A dear friend introduced us in the ordinary Josh, this is Jane kind of way that forever changes the trajectory of your life.

I was 21, with trendy brown lips and hair sheared short. I smiled, and the butterflies quickly found their wings in my stomach.

It was love at first sight for her, Josh loves to tell people. And it was. But it wasnt quite time for us yet, and those early butterflies quickly settled into an easy friendship marked with familiar bickering banter and near-constant togetherness.

Almost two years had gone by when I snuck through the side door of a darkened church, late for a midweek service. The sanctuary was full, and many people were standing along the back and side walls. As I made my way through the dark, looking for a seat, I caught a glimpse of a man out of the corner of my eye. The kind of corner-eye glimpse that makes you do a double take.

The man wore a ribbed, burnt-orange, mock-turtleneck sweater and jeans. He stood with one foot propped up on the wall behind him and a messenger bag slung over his shoulder and across his body.

Who is that? I thought, my curiosity piqued. I cringed when I recognized his face in the darkness. I had just done a double take on Josh Johnson.

That was strange, I thought.

Shaking it off, I focused on the service. But try as I might, I couldnt shake off the story that God had already written for us. And my easy friendship with him slowly began finding its way back to those early butterflies.