There was the year the barn burned.
And the one where our shed blew away and half the house too.
There was the year we stopped talking.
And another, when we started from scratch.
The year Grandma died. And the one when my nephew was born.
The year I realized I wasn’t as good as I thought I might be.
And the year I realized I wasn’t always going to be young and pretty.
The year of painful acne and world travels.
Of bad habits. Of quitting. And starting them again. Doubt. Confession. Repeat.
The year a boy said, “There’s something missing here.” And the year another said, “I think we should do this again.”
The year I still wonder if I could’ve done it differently. And what would that have been like?
There was the year I prayed a lot. And the year I prayed very little.
There was the year I felt like I loved God. And the year I felt like I’d never met Him—and maybe it was all in my head. And He probably didn’t love me anyway.
There was the year she told me to wear SPF because I’d get wrinkles when I was older. And the year I got wrinkles.
But the fine lines in my forehead are the reminder that I know I’m different than I used to be.
I’ve only had 29 birthdays. By Grandpa’s count, I’ve got ages ahead of me. By others, I’m an old maid.
Happy new year either way.
But isn’t it interesting that God made seasons? And why are we all so obsessed with categorizing time into manageable chunks?
God’s outside of time and we even try that mad business with Him.
I guess I don’t know if this was a good year or a bad year. The best of them or the worst of them. If I’m a better person or a worse one. Or sort of similar.
The older I get, the less I know for sure.
But the more likely I am to get some perspective.
Enough to know that I’m grateful I’ve lived long enough for fine lines on my forehead. I’m grateful for time with all the people who are still alive and that I get to keep saying “Jesus, I love you. Help my unbelief.”
“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:” Ecclesiastes 3:1