A few days ago, I sat with two of the most remarkable people I know. Larry and Kathy have been part of our church since before I arrived 24 years ago. From the beginning, they welcomed me, believed in me, encouraged me, and prayed for me.

Back then, they were active leaders and missionaries to the streets of my hometown of Tampa, Florida. For years, they led a ministry downtown where they served meals, gave haircuts, and offered dignity to the most overlooked. No fanfare. Just compassion. They’ve spent decades quietly becoming giants in the kingdom.

Now, their days look different.

Larry has Parkinson’s. The disease has progressed in such a way that he is bound to a wheelchair, his voice barely rising above a whisper. His mind is sharp, his spirit still burns for Jesus, but his energy is low. Kathy, his bride, is his constant caregiver. A hospital bed now sits beside the one they shared for so many years, so she can be close at night for anything Larry needs. Their home, once filled with motion and ministry, now moves move slowly. Quieter.

I sat in stillness as Kathy served him, every gesture marked by quiet grace. They walked me through their daily rhythm—managing movement, medication, and a thousand details they never thought they’d need to consider. Some days are smooth. Others bring intense episodes where Larry’s body stiffens and trembles, robbing him of comfort and rest.

If anyone had reason to lament or cry out in frustration over what they don’t understand about God’s ways, or the ache of living in a world not yet whole, it would be my friends. But I wasn’t prepared for the words Kathy shared that absolutely wrecked me.

There in their living room, oxygen tubing in Larry’s nose, Kathy said:

“We’re just so grateful. We get to be with one another, and we see the kindness of God every day.”

There was no performance in her voice. No spiritual bravado. Just peace. Her words didn’t come from denial, but from deeply lived truth.

Kathy told me how she used to read the Scripture in Lamentations 3:23 that says, “New, fresh mercies greet me with every sunrise,” but that she couldn’t really understand it. But now? Now she sees God’s mercy everywhere.

“This is mercy,” she said, pointing to Larry.

Friends coming by to reminisce about the road they’ve walked together: it’s mercy. Family visiting from out of town: it’s mercy.

The feel of her hand in his, the breath in their lungs, and the tears that fall when they pray together—it’s all mercy now.

She brought out a painting she’s been working on. A bright, beautiful landscape bursts with vibrant red and white flowers, their roots exposed, reminding us that what’s unseen is often more important than what’s visible. Above the field is their home, and beyond that, open space she plans to fill with the faces of those she loves: family, friends, our church, and all the gifts God has entrusted to her. And towering over it all is Jesus, arms outstretched, holding everything together.

“This,” Kathy told me, “is how I see the world now—everywhere I go, Jesus is here, over it all.” That kind of vision doesn’t come from comfort or the frantic pace of everything we’re trying to conquer. It comes from slowing down. From surrender. From trust.

As I sat in their home, I couldn’t help but contrast their peace with the clutter and chaos I so often find myself ministering to, and sometimes living in. We run. We rush. We chase so many things that don’t matter, trying to grasp clarity, control, or some measure of success. We protest the brokenness of this world, sometimes with fear and often with frustration, telling ourselves that things will finally be okay after we cross this next hurdle. But in all of our striving, we forget how to see.

Jesus said:

“Everything I’ve taught you is so that the peace which is in me will be in you and will give you great confidence as you rest in me. For in this unbelieving world you will experience trouble and sorrows, but you must be courageous, for I have conquered the world!”

John 16:33 TPT

Larry and Kathy know this. They’re not surprised by suffering anymore. But neither are they bitter. They’re not clinging to past versions of their story, they’re living this one. Fully present. Fully grateful. And in doing so, they are seeing mercies most of us miss.

Kathy shared how, in recent months, she and Larry have had many conversations, making things right from earlier chapters of their story, saying what needed to be said, cherishing what they once rushed through. And with tears in her eyes and a palpable sense of peace, she reiterated:

“God has been so good to us.”

That’s a different kind of strength. Not the kind that gets celebrated on stages, but the kind heaven rejoices over. A heart that stays soft. Eyes that stay open. Love that remains faithful.

The apostle Paul wrote:

“Even though our outer person gradually wears out, our inner being is renewed every single day.”

2 Corinthians 4:16 TPT

That’s what I see in Larry and Kathy. A man whose body is wearing down. A woman who has poured herself out. And yet, a home filled with life, real resurrection life. Not just in the hope of eternity, but right now, in this beautiful, broken place we call home.

Their story is a tribute. But it’s also a mirror. It makes me ask:

What mercies am I too distracted to see today?

What gifts from God have I grown too entitled to appreciate?

What could change if I slowed down and truly believed that new mercies greet me with every sunrise?

We cannot avoid pain in this life. But we can refuse to let it blind us to beauty.

Larry and Kathy are still teaching me. After all these years, they are still feeding hungry hearts, not through programs or projects, but through the quiet glory of endurance. Through their peace. Through their presence. Through the way they trust God and love each other, right where they are.

So, friend, here’s the question I want to leave us:

Will we see mercy today?

Slow down.

Breathe deep.

Pay attention.

You might just see the kindness of God right where you didn’t expect it.