Movement 3DisorientationDay 184
Noticing the new · Isaiah 43 / 48

Do you not perceive it?

The new thing springing forth

There is a gentle challenge folded into the middle of one of God's tenderest promises. Behold, He says through Isaiah, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth. And then, before the comfort can settle, the question: will you not perceive it? It is asked of people still sitting in the rubble of the old, still turned to face what they lost. The new thing is not in the distant future waiting to be announced with trumpets. It is springing forth already, now, while you are still grieving — and the danger is not that it will fail to come but that you will fail to see it.

For the new rarely arrives looking like the old. A way is opening in the wilderness, rivers in the desert, but a way through trackless country does not look like the road you knew, and water in sand is easy to miss when your eyes are full of the river you remember. Isaiah presses the same point again: God has been showing them new things, hidden things they had not known. Hidden things. Part of how the long disorientation begins to turn is the slow, deliberate work of learning to perceive the new thing God has quietly already started.


Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; will you not perceive it? I will even make a way in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert.

The LORD, through Isaiah — Isaiah 43:19 (WEB)

Isaiah 48:6

I have showed you new things from this time, even hidden things, which you have not known.


Grief has a way of fixing your eyes on what is gone. It is natural; it may even be right for a season. But it carries a cost the grieving rarely notice: while your face is turned back toward the old thing you lost, the new thing can be springing up right behind you, unseen. God's question is not a rebuke. It is tender, but pointed: will you not perceive it. He is asking you to turn your head.

Because the new thing almost never announces itself. It does not arrive looking like the old restored. It comes small — a door you would not have called a door, a relationship you did not expect, a quiet steadiness where there used to be a roar. If you wait for the new to look like the old come back, you will walk straight past the rivers breaking out in your own desert. So the discipline of the turn is partly a discipline of the eyes: to look forward as well as back, and to take seriously that God may already be doing the very thing you are still praying He would begin.

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