Normally, I'd try to avoid it.
After all, middle-age birthdays fall somewhere in that misty ground between wholehearted celebrations and "wow, no way you are eighty"!
In fact, if someone said I didn't look a day above seventy today, I'd be highly insulted.
Just sayin'.
Though I might wish to hide, I can't avoid reflection this week.
Saturday marks the 20th anniversary of my mom's death.
That's a long time to miss someone almost every day.
Some of the things I've experienced this year have been profound. I take a moment of silent gratitude to be thrilled they are over -- my ex-husband's cancer treatment, our house renovation, mislaying a friendship.
Then there are the gifts that I never could have made for myself.
My children's deepening faith.
Forging new friendships and rebuilding old ones.
Some parts of this year's adventures were sad and ludicrous.
Getting hurt is never purty.
Yet in the process, I learned to value myself more highly.
I must say, however, that because of this learning experience, I have seen things I never thought I'd see, as I watched, torn between unbelief, horror, and amusement.
Ya can't make this stuff up. Surely most of what happens to us is a grist for a writer's mill.
But as one year flows into another, I'm moving futureward rather than yearning backward.
This year I'm going to try to see the blessings rather than the frustrations.
This year I'm going to put myself out more for those who might need me.
This year I won't take as many easy side roads -- the straight and narrow is probably the one that gets me to the desired spot faster.
This year I'm going to file my papers so I can see my desk.
Ask me if I can find the wood underneath the papers -- 365 days should be plenty of time.
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