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How to have a truly happy new year.

For the first time in years, I don’t remember my New Year’s resolution from January. Usually, I write it down in my journal or on a note I stick to my mirror. There’s been many of those dog-eared sticky notes from years past. The year of contentment. Speaking life. We passed pancakes across the breakfast table on January 1st this year. “What do you want from 2018?” I can’t remember my answer. I know what I didn’t want though. I didn’t want to walk into her office and share the parts of my life I’m inclined to hide. I didn’t want to Facetime her the day after she delivered her baby that never breathed. I didn’t want to spend four months wondering how I’d walk into her house on Christmas day and see her empty chair. I didn’t want to go on another first date that led nowhere. We sit across from each other in a little coffee shop in Colorado, picking at a charcuterie board. “When I think about all of the things I have left to go through,” her voice cracks....
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No Coincidence

The backpacks, briefcases, and bus rides were all new to me. I tried to blend with their hipster glasses and jeggings, checking my phone as I walked the sidewalk, pretending that I really did know where my next class was being held.

Three weeks into first year, I pulled open the glass door and scanned my music history classroom for a place to sit. The cathedral ceiling seemed to suck the September sun into its highest point. But I still saw her clearly, her illuminating smile. She was talking to the people next to her, looking them right in the eye. I went and sat beside her. An introduction.

“What instrument do you play?” I asked.
“Piano.” That smile.                                         
“Me too.”

In music theory class, the next day, she sat beside me.
“How many siblings do you have?” I asked.
“Three. I’m the youngest.”
I smiled back. “Me too.”

I never asked, but I knew. The smile came from her heart. She had a new heart, like me. Jesus transformed us.
           
Over a year later, we’re sitting here in the house we share, our other roommates at home with their families. We should be studying, but we’re talking, the fireplace making shadows dance in the living room. We both wear ugly bathrobes. Mine is baby blue. Hers is pink. We talk about God’s sovereignty. I look at her with a mess of highlighted papers scattered on the floor before her; I don’t think I can believe in coincidences, even in history class.

Remember, today, the grace He’s worked in your life.

            

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