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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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The good news of growing up.

“I expect at least one piece of sad news a week now that I’m an adult,” I text her. I mean it as a joke.
But then I count back the weeks--and no one’s laughing.
I sit at home on Friday, voiceless, sipping honey lemon tea. And praying. Praying because it was one of those texts that knocks the wind out of you.
Words? They’re deleted as soon as they’re typed. Silenced as soon as they’re thought.
What do you say when she sends a picture of her twenty-week old baby cradled in her husband’s hands?
We were seventeen together once. Me and her. We had all the answers then.
I can’t even call her because my swollen vocal cords are bigger than the lump in my throat.
Growing up is like that. It’s made me mute, taken all my answers away.
And yet. I do not want to be seventeen again. Full of answers. Devoid of faith.
I linger over this paragraph in a book I read the day after, how faith is really just thinking.

Thinking Truth.
I bump into strangers walking down the path beneath the cherry blossoms with her. “I am so happy with this time of life.”
Grown up and helpless. Without a plaque-on-the-kitchen-wall-scripture verse.
Emptied of words. He fills the space with His.
Mute. Without answers. He speaks.
And in the silence, in that pause over the phone, it’s Truth that fills the gap.
“The sum of your word is truth, and every one of your righteous rules endures forever.” Psalm 119:160



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