What are you doing New Year's?

It's the eve of the new year. Mixed feelings always on this day. Do you know that I have never been to a party on this day? Never once have I been in a swanky, sparkly place, dressed to the nines, sipping Tequila at midnight. It sounds amazing. Being part of a group. Eating expensive food. Strings of white lights. Candles. Laughter. And. Maybe an opportunity to dance. Writers are dreamers. I'm good with that.

I have never once partied like it's 1999, because incidentally, on the eve of Y2K I was working till the wee hours to ensure the cash registers would allow the people, who were hung over on January 1, to purchase Advil.

I have, however, attended many a Scrabble match in my sweat pants, with sloppy joes, chips, sweet tea and cookies. I have shared my heart over puzzles. I have gone to bed with tears of lonliness. I have celebrated, with sparklers in the snow, the "magic" hour of 2100 hours before tucking precious littles into bed.

No matter the way in which I ring it in, I always experience melancholy. In some form. In the back of my mind. I dwell on the past. I feel the familiar pain. And I allow myself a moment, or two, to look my lifetime companion in the eye. To say, "I see you there. Your presence is palpable." But just as palpable is the knowledge that beauty rises from ashes. God does not intend for us to remain broken. He comes in the quietness to cover and heal those hurting spaces. Like a soft, winter snow. He does his best work here, friends, he really does.

I close my eyes briefly, and when I open them, I know that what lies ahead is different. Better. I'm older. Yikes. Creeping up there for realz. Who knows. Maybe one day I will find myself super important and special, attending a gala like Cinderella, on the eve of a new year. Even so, I will meet my old friend, and then I will smile. Big. Because whether in sweat pants or a cocktail dress, life is a gift to be celebrated.

I'll take an imaginary spin around the room tonight, but also I'll look back, and then to what lies ahead.

A new chapter in my story. I have no idea what it will say.

May the One who loves me best help me to write it well.

Every Time A Bell Rings...

Readers, it's a tough week ahead. My least favorite week of the year. I hate considering the past and contemplating the future; but it is something everyone does at the imminent approach of a new year.

I've seen so many jokes about this being the worst year EVER. I remember the exact same thing happening a year ago. I have to wonder if this idea that every year is "the worst thing we've ever encountered" or "I'm so over this year, bring on another" was a thing before social media. Did our parents hate every single year of their lives? Seriously. Do you think so? Or is this indicative of a current sense of entitlement that seems to define EVERYONE?

I experienced many challenges this year. I'm still engrossed in exhaustion and challenge, but I certainly would not declare this to be the worst year of my life. Nor the one before it. (Those are reserved for some very specific times.) We are our choices. We shape our lives through daily choice, and if this was the eighth "worst year ever" in a row, I'd have to suggest you take a closer look at your agenda. I am not suggesting anything more than I am doing in my own life. I have taken copious notes in recent days and made some decisions. I realize the life I'm shaping isn't the life I necessarily want.

One of my favorite seasonal movies is - It's A Wonderful Life. I haven't seen it in several years, but I still have the script stored. How could George have possibly known that all those daily choices would add up to a life that is priceless? Each day that he made a choice to give of himself, he found meaning, and, further, he enriched countless lives around him. Every time I saw Jimmy Stewart desperately seeking to be known, wrestling with Clarence for information regarding his beloved, I was moved. Would that we all would have the opportunity for the same experience. A pre-chance to gauge how we are measuring up.

Are you shaping your life to be priceless? Or are you expecting this life to give YOU something? Like the year 2016 owes you more income, a different president-elect, or less stress. In actuality, the year 2016 was a season of time that you were gifted. Now you get to take stock of what you did with it. Did your daily choices add up?

I think if my life ended today, I wouldn't exactly be proud of my 2016. And it's not because of what happened TO me, it's because of the choices I made. It's the responses to situations. It's the time lost. It's the giving of myself to the things that will perish.

In the next week, I'm going to be bummed. It happens every year. But the key word for the approach of a new year is: GRACE.

May we all be liberal givers and takers of such. It is straight from tbe heart of God. For you. For your path.

2017 will not "hopefully be my year" unless you make it so. Be action. Be love. Be mercy. Be grace. I think you will find it will make for a wonderful life.

Anne

One of my favorite literary characters of all time is Anne Shirley. I loved reading about her. I loved watching her come to life through Megan Follows. I personally relate to Anne on so many levels. I see the same characteristics in myself that I see in her. Just a joy from start to finish to be a part of her imagined life. Do yourselves a favor sometime. Immerse yourself in the culture of Prince Edward Island. Of Green Gables. Engage the spirit of friendship that, in my opinion, might be unrivaled. Friendship of the heart that knows no hindrance. Two hearts that so naturally bond for life. It's what we long for.

Now. Anne. Utterly delightful. Has some flaws about her. She, like myself, reacts quickly and emotionally. She breaks her slate on Gilbert's head after he calls her "Carrots" because of her red hair. She has a great deal of trouble holding her tongue. She is thoughtful but very reactionary. There is one particular instance that I am going to relate today.

A neighbor lady, Rachel, complained to Anne that her cow had been getting into her field and had been destructive. Anne promises to rectify the situation, but driving along one day, looks up and sees a cow in the field chewing on the produce. Instantly. Despite being in her best clothes, she hops out of the buggy, convinces her somewhat prissy friend to help, climbs the fence, and both attempt to corral the cow out of the muddy field. Both are drenched in mud and sludge when a local farmer happens along, and, in anger, Anne sells him the cow on the spot. Turns out the cow in question actually belonged to Rachel....

I've been particularly busy at work. I'm trying my best to hold a lot of processes together, and it happened to be the responsibility of my department to empty the garbage two weeks in a row. By day 9 of hearing complaints about the timeliness of this project being done, I had had it. My inner dialogue was something like this... "I'm juggling 354.8 balls right now. If the only one that falls to the ground is the garbage, so be it. I count that a success. If you have time to come complain about the garbage, you must have the time to do it yourself." Anne. Angela. Reactionary.

I push two of the bins out and empty them into the dumpster. I come back and grab the other two and notice a metal container on the floor. "Seriously?! You missed the bin in your haste to dump your trash?" is my question. I schlep it into the bin and proceed emptying those into the dumpster. As I return, I notice there are more of said containers. And. Further. There are labeled signs numbering the containers. Now you've gone and done it. In your haste and anger you have thrown away company property. When will you ever learn?!

I go out to the dumpster. In my best clothes, mind you. I find the container which isn't too far in but I can't reach it. I search to no avail for something to help me get it. I hike up my skirt, much like Anne, to avoid getting too dirty. I climb INTO the dumpster. Into the dumpster. Bless it. I retrieve the container. But I can't get out of the dumpster. It's seemingly the same height on both sides but I am actually a little shorter on the inside. I cautiously look out, and see the UPS guy chilling and watching the whole scenario. It's like Gilbert Blythe! Humph. I will handle this with as much dignity as I can muster at this point. Thankfully it's quite dark at this point, I hike up my skirt and ungracefully emerge...errrrr....fall out of the dumpster. I dust myself off and haughtily saunter past him. Anne to a "T."

As I'm replacing the container, a co-worker walks by and says something like, "Oh, what are you doing with that mousetrap?"

Mic drop.

I couldn't be more like her if I tried. Oh the situations I find myself in. Honestly I'm not sure I'm even as delightful as her to see past my transgressions. But we're all a work in progress, yes? Some of us apparently have more work to do than others....

Home Alone

It's been a full day of refreshment. I did not leave the house today. Not once. Presently I'm sitting in front of the fireplace, with a warm cup of coffee, staring at my screen and stealing glimpses of the Christmas tree. Side note: my cat is drinking the tree water and when I touched a branch today, all the needles instantly fell to the floor. Stay tuned for the Griswold fire in the next week or two... My youngest son is fresh from the shower in his jammie pants and suit jacket. He is listening to something with his headphones and grabbing slices of pizza. It's like watching a live version of Home Alone.

I'm browsing. Shopping in my mind. Two things stand out to me. 1) If I want to go see Wicked, I can buy the last reasonable ticket and go alone. We have already discussed my love of the theater and this production in particular. So. I'm probably going to do it. I've absolutely no issue going alone. It just means I have to buy my own slice of pie afterward. Which is a little disheartening. 2) My favorite childhood book is out of print. We also discussed this. The Twelve Dancing Princesses? Remember? I was thinking about purchasing it just because it was one of the happy memories of my childhood. A keepsake. Something sentimental. And do you know Amazon is selling it for $94?! A child's book. Probably 15 pages at most. Out of print. $94.

Now. If I'm in the live version of Home Alone, I'm rather expecting a Christmas miracle. And it could be one of many things. It's not likely to be Wicked tickets or an out of print book. I mean who knows, the big guy is always watching, ya? But. It's more likely to be the small things. The little kindnesses that creep into each day. The co-worker who brushes the snow off your car. The UPS guy who doesn't dump your packages in the snowdrift, but, rather, brings them to your doorstep. The person you pass every day who greets you with a warm smile. The child who lights up when you enter the house. The pet who curls up in your lap to watch a show. The friend that sends a random text to let you know you occupy a spot in their thoughts and heart. The large Dunkin Donuts iced tea with say two, or whatever, three, Splendas, that makes its way to your desk.

Small, maybe anonymous, Christmas miracles. A way to brighten a day. A week. Or a year. Challenge accepted.

Silent. Humble. Purposeful.

Today in church I sat behind a young couple with a newborn son. A freshly arrived, still wrinkly, head bobbing, thinly and unplump, sweet as can be, newborn. I could just eat him up. Kiss all his fingers and toes, inhale his baby scent, and eat him up. His mother shifted him in her arms and he did that amazing instinctive thing. He nuzzled his face right into her neck. I could have died.

Those were amazing days. The early days. Now I will be the first to admit I am not a wonderful person when I am lacking rest. So they were tough. But nothing in this world can compare to holding and loving a newborn child. Something so poignant and precious to snuggling a helpless gift.

I felt so safe and loved as I listened to the sermon and watched that baby. There is nowhere I would rather be on a Sunday morning than in church with my family. I don't want to be at work, or the football field, or the store or even in bed, though I adore sleep above all else. It helps give me courage to face the world.

Naturally the sermon topic centers around Christmas for the month of December. I wondered just what it must have been like to rock the Savior to sleep. I saw the picture of love in front of me as a young mother bobbed back and forth. Mary must have been so overwhelmed as a first time mother. I know I was. But to be holding a wrinkly, very unplump, unsteady baby that just so happened to have formed the stars... I feel like her emotions got the better of her those first few moments. She surely must have felt the additional weight of responsibility. How does one actually mother, God? Talk about Mom guilt. Mary must have been able to cart hers around by camel, or ten. Equally, though, the joy must have been unrivaled as she snuggled him close day after day. As she watched the unrest around her. As she reread prophecy. As she began to understand just what a gift had been given.

I'm so glad Love stepped into our broken, broken world. I'm so glad that an unorthodox method was chosen.

Silent. Humble. Purposeful.

Love and redemption. A tale as old as time.

Tomorrow when once again I find myself overwhelmed. I will remember that little guy from today. His pure sweetness. I will remember another baby. With tiny fingers and toes. Who walked the road of humanity to know me in this weakness.

What kind of love is this?

The kind that demands my all.