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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 one is born a Christian.

“So, you grew up in a Christian home,” she says, fingering the rim of her Starbucks cup. It feels like an accusation.

“Sort of,” I say. “My parents became Christians right before I was born.”

This is always my response. It’s my way of validating that I wasn’t coerced, manipulated or brainwashed into a life of faith.

Unless I’m the stupid one?

I wonder this sometimes. Maybe I’m crazy to believe this old, old story. Maybe the world is one-dimensional. Maybe life really is all about adrenaline highs, sex and entertainment. Or even romance, family and friends.

And what’s the point then?

I know a few hundred kids who grew up in Christian homes. I know fewer who walk with Christ.

But my mind always finds its way back to the age-old rhetorical question. To Pilate staring into the eyes of Christ and asking, “What is truth?”

And my heart finds its way back to another age-old rhetorical question. To Jesus looking ‘round his group of disciples and asking, “For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his soul?”

I talk her ear off for five minutes about how it just sunk in that the soul is the most essential part of us. Not gender. Not a six-pack. Not our name. Not our good deeds. Our soul.

I know a few hundred kids who grew up in Christian homes. But I don’t know anyone who’s a Christian because of that. Christianity is not the box you check on a form. It’s the reality of the soul.

No one’s soul is washed in redemptive joy because their parents read them the Bible at dinner.

There are no Christians by proxy. Joy is a joke to those who have never experienced it. Forgiveness is a myth to those who have never received it. And love is an imitation to those who have never known Him.

I come downstairs in the early hours of the morning to my mom with her eyes closed, whispering prayers. But it’s only a fond flashback to my childhood if Christ is not Ruler of my soul.

I am not a Christian by proxy. I am a Christian because Christ took over my most essential self. He puts my sleepless nights to rest. He gives me hope to wake up.

I can’t pretend self is my bio on Instagram.

And I can’t stare into the face of Jesus and wonder what truth is.

I’m a Christian. 

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