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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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Not What I Do

The days turn into each other like a line of dancers.

It’s almost the end of my second last semester in university.

I’ve been a writer for these four months. It’s in the dark bags under my eyes, typing up stories and articles and blogs every night until after midnight. Deadlines as frequent as days.

I realize, between the tears and the chocolate chips and the coffee, that I’m addicted.

Addicted to what?

What I do.

My classmates talk about “finding themselves” in a morning class. Ironically, I’m lost with the discussion because I “found myself” when I was seven.

When I said: Jesus, I want to live for you.

In four months of satisfying work, I forget my identity in Christ and try to find it somewhere else.
Then, it crumbles. My success, my satisfaction, in one day, with one mark, with a sentence of rejection, it crumbles.

Like a dancer, clumsily, I swing back in.

Like I’m seven, I say it again. Jesus, I want to live for you. 

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