People have opinions on January. We all start the year collectively excited for what’s to come. Maybe we have specific goals and dreams in mind to fulfill in the new year or quite possibly, we’re ready for the chance to have a clean slate after a challenging 12 months. Within a week or two though, the shiny newness of the year starts to dull and we start spilling crumbs in our practically brand-new year as we return to work and school and real-life routine. And then, suddenly January feels 72 days long. Like, will this ever end? I personally love it — there’s something about the length of the month and the darkness of the days that lets you settle in and get cozy. It helps you remember that this new year is a marathon, not a sprint. There’s time to get adjusted. There’s time for a book and a nap. Truly, after the hectic maze of holiday celebrations, we’ve all secretly got a “I’ll see you when I see you” kind of thinking towards social obligations. But for me, personally, all the days of January also hold an ache because this is the month that Rhett passed away and whether I ignore the feelings or not, I’m going to have to live through another January 21. I’m going to have to live the day remembering this detail and that, when the texts came and the phone calls and then the silence and then one last call. I’m going to have to let the gym floors of my heart open and reveal the ocean beneath it – the love, the missing, the questions, the memories, the ache for an outcome that wouldn’t be ours, the hurt — all swirling up.
Every day of January I feel the water sloshing just beneath the floor. I feel quiet and tender. It is not fair. It will never be fair, not in this life anyways. And that’s why I look around the room to make sure my very great hope is still here. He is. He always will be. “We will walk this thing together,” Jesus told me in the early days after Rhett passed away. And He has made good on His words. And so, I feel the ache — I acknowledge its presence as I stare at another winter sunset. I feel the opening and I remember that I’m not the only one feeling it — not in my family, not in my friend group, not in the world.
And in the sharpest duality I’ll ever know in my life, I also have to celebrate in January because the 22nd is my birthday. I have to remember in seemingly the next breath that life the most incredible gift. That life lived in close friendship with God is the most miraculous experience a human can have. I have to remember that God has numbered each and every one of our days and acknowledge the comfort it is to have your entire life being cupped in His hands, the end just as safe as the beginning. I have to look around see what God has done in me and brought to me this past year. I must do all of this because turning a year older isn’t an opportunity afforded to everyone. And so with every ounce, with gusto I must – if for no other reason than to honor those who weren’t given the gift – embrace life. I must throw like glitter the victory of Jesus because that is what makes all the difference. That is what gets me through these first 31 days.
Behold, I am making all things new,” is the victory song. “There is no one like our God. Everyone who runs towards him makes it. He protects us with his salvation-armor; he touches us and we feel ten feet tall. He is coming. Soon and very soon.”
Yes, Lord Jesus, Come, soon. Come very soon.
