Light streams into our bedroom, reflecting off of the snow outside that fell quietly through the night. Not enough to keep him home, but a soft, bright reminder of the season we’re in.
The blank slates, fresh starts.
My hands retain a dull ache as my fingers slide across the familiar keys. We’ve painted every surface we can reach and worried over shades of gray far longer than should be necessary. I give a slight frown as I look at the imperfect lines and places on the trim that need touched up. We should have hired someone, but even still, pride echoes through me as I survey the home we’ve made here. It is not perfect, but it is ours.
As my puppy girl snuggles under the covers, I wonder what this new year might bring us. I’ve long since given up on trying to plan my year. Had I that much control over the direction of my path, I’d certainly not be here, in this sacred and soft space, surrounded by snow and the Chesapeake Bay. The things I hold dear are mostly those that I never planned for. A union of two 21-year-old souls. Days spent learning and teaching and learning to teach. Years spent in territory precariously close to the Mason-Dixon, well away from my roots and my mother. Hours upon hours peeking through a viewfinder, clicking away to capture fleeting, precious moments.
This was never the sort of story I’d write for myself, and yet it is mine all the same. Learning to embrace it has been an incredible journey and even sweeter gift. Glory and wonder and awe to the Creator.
And so, with a fresh snow and new start, we step forward into the next year, hopeful and humble and entirely without a clue.
No plans, only praise.