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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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Green Grass on the Other Side of the Globe

(Re-posting: I tried to write a blog post yesterday and again this morning. When I searched through old blog posts, I found this was what I was trying to write again anyway. Sometimes we re-learn things and that's okay, right?)

I hear it every day from one of the shivering, bundled up students at the bus stop, “It’s so crazy cold.” I see them scrolling through pictures on Facebook during class, comparison pictures of snow-covered Ontario and green Florida. We are all talking about our next vacation and where we will escape because that is what one does when the green grass is on the other side of the globe.

I find my thoughts enclosing around the things that I do not have, not just green grass and sandy beaches. I cannot fall asleep at night, wishing. My mind spins out of control. I cannot rest while I am striving for the things I will never possess—or I will not possess yet. My eyes are filled with pictures of what I desire and they block my view of everything I have been given.

Until I wake up and whisper, out of habit, “Your mercies are new every morning.” I breathe in the smell of coffee and watch the snow fall outside, like each flake is some glorious gift of love. 

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