The quietness of a new morning; the world recovering from an entire year in one night's going away party. Some drank in celebration of the best year they've had, others in hopes for a better one with cleans slates and new resolutions. Inside they plead with the unseen world, that if they celebrated enough, this upcoming year will fulfill its promise. They had hope and expectation; they ignored the fear for tomorrow; the clock's ticking, for the first time that year, made them feel free from past mistakes.
But now this last day's midnight has come and gone, and its the beginning of the first day of a year's mistakes, and the day is calm and clear. I barely see more than a car or two on a normally busy highway. It's eight in the morning and the peace is still undisturbed. I haven't set my goals for these upcoming twelve months, 365 days and fifty-two weeks. Right now the only thing I'm resolving to do is drink more water and find my bed a little sooner tonight. I had to fake awake with caffeine this morning and will have counterfeit hydration throughout the rest of the day with no small amount of lotions and lip gloss. All I want to do is attach an IV drip to my arm and plop face-down into a pile of pillows. I'll decide on tomorrow's goals...maybe tomorrow?
I wish I could keep driving, and enjoy this time to myself. Slow the speed of the day and the season and breathe. But the ticking of the clock is still going, and I wonder why time is now my enemy, where last night we cheered it on to bring in the future with celebration. What do I want this year to bring? What do I want to discover and learn? What will change?
I feel the grief of dying dreams, of readjusting reality, and the clarity of practicality coming into focus. Once again I've stepped towards an unknown purpose, and away from all that I thought life would be. And I breathe a prayer, “Lord, my dreams are lost by the wayside, show me what You've already decided for me.” I know He never wanted the pain of the death I've experienced, but I've clung stubbornly to the supposed to be's. I've censored His vision, and when my ear was not tuned to His call and direction, I listened to whatever screamed the loudest. But now the spectacular is stripped away, the potential is a pile of nothing, and I am left waiting, average, suspended, hoping to be simple enough to be used. If being last will make me first in His plan, if having nothing to offer is everything He is asking for, than my empty hands, all though blindingly painful at times, are open, and I'll wait. Whether the morning is peaceful, or the rush of the day pushes in, I'll offer up the absolutely nothing that I am.
Next year when the clock moves forward, the ball drops down, while some people celebrate and some mourn, I will know that whatever happened is extraordinary, even if it is of the everyday kind.
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