wonder you can speak with confidence andgrace. you have the whole world on your side. you
travel and eat out and meet people everywhere and
are young. i cannot be a happy Christian. i’ve been
married and divorced three times, had a nervous
breakdown, and am trapped at home.”
i responded by letter…
“your life sounds very difficult. i’m so sorry it’s
been so rough for you. behind my sunshine and
what you call ‘grace’ are some enormous disappointments
and shameful failures and lonely
agonies. i think no one escapes life without pain
and struggle. try and remember that it’s how we let
God help us respond that determines whether or
not we can live with hope. i believe in bright happy
tomorrows for you…”
it matters what you do with a year.
it counts. the old is the foundation
for the new.
new year’s eve, 1974.
i threw a robe over my gown, slipped on sandals,
a warm cap over my ears, and gloves.
my world was black with night. the cold caught
my breath and made it white, and i laughed to
watch it and feel its sting on my face.
everything was still and quiet. i scraped up a
ball of snow and aimed it at the neighbors’
window.
i threw three more and waited for them to look
out… and laugh back… and belong and BE at
the dawn of ‘75.
then i tossed snowballs in the night… in all
directions.
and called out,
“God, do you see me?
ann. in this old neighborhood. i’m alive, God.
i’m celebrating. YOU’VE made me live.
You’ve kept me strong. when i hurt, You did.
when i cried, You cried. when i failed, You knew
…but You didn’t shove me away. others would
have. they would have thought their judgment
righteous and proper. oh, Jesus, not You.
You’re love.
and love is strong. and faithful. and loyal.
and patient and kind.
Jesus, thank you.
‘74 had agony and promise.
i still want to know so much more about Truth.
but i’m growing. i can feel it, God.
make “something beautiful” out of me.
it’s a NEW year. yahoooooooo…”
snowballs and flurries and miles of sky and
bending trees.
and God and i and love
wanting to turn the world.
in small ways.
where people live and hurt.
because He loves us.
you. me.
anyone.
earlier that new year’s eve, i popped corn in my
new popper from Christmas… and took it
downstairs to the girls who live below me. we
sipped pepsis and stretched on the rug to watch t. v.
then they poured me eggnog, and we felt festive
and sophisticated, waiting for a new year.
today the unknown hours stretch and pull before
me.
potential and power and poise.
eternity in my neighborhood, where i live…
i believe.
i’m ann, and i’m a woman now.
twenty-nine years old.
eight years out of college,
through three jobs.
with enough experiences to produce some
maturity.
when i started speaking, i often defined myself as
“a simple, young girl.” that is a secure feeling and
i find myself still tempted to use it.
i feel as if i must be twenty.
there’s zest and energy and enthusiasm inside.
but no longer can people muse,
“she is so young to have done so many things.
she’s just fresh in the real world. we must give
her room to grow.”
it isn’t that perfection is demanded.
just some discretion, a balance in opinions.
sensibleness.
