Dear 2024

Dear 2024, 

It’s almost the end of January 2025 and I am still trying to gather my thoughts on you.  We’ve all had years like you and you are bound to show up again, just disguised as a different number. I am not upset with you—I am just trying to figure out how I feel about you.  

Let’s get this out of the way first.  A lot happened with my kids—some small things, some large things—but that’s my kids’ business.  However, I am their mom—and because I love them with my whole self, I am affected by “all the things” which factors into a thing like you, 2024.  So, for the record, the ride my mom heart took found with every turn a security in a dependence on a God who is comforting, at work and worthy of my trust.  2024, I am happy to report, we are still standing and love each other. 

This picture was taken the end of November-- so there. 

There’s no other way to say this, but you started off with a heavy hitter.  One of the heaviest of any year.  Losing daddy.  But those days out of your 365 held things for me I never knew how to anticipate.  Who does until it happens?  We do not ponder death often but after watching my dad, he gave me plenty to think about.  He let go of his full life with such dignity, it brings tears to my eyes.  I think he fought it as long as it seemed wise to him and then he surrendered with a humility, a quietness and a steadiness I won’t ever forget.  This may sound weird to you but he showed me when my time comes, I can do it too.  This loss I didn’t see coming so quickly, 2024, but your days held it and our family rallied together, remembered together and grieved together. 

Our custom has been to put grandchildren {now great} in the spaces of those we lost.

That led to something that overshadowed your days as a whole—decisions. You, 2024, held more decisions than I ever thought possible.  All that made up my parents’ home, all that made up 18 plus years of two childhoods, belongings of both sets of grandparents, even their parents—LIFE—in the shape of things, papers and photos.  From a Bible belonging to S. J. Potts from 1875 to the ketchup in the refrigerator that expired the week after he died—each item, piece of paper and photograph passing through my hands, sorting it into “keep” or not.  Thousands of items touched and regarded.  2024, even though at times I felt buried under the weight of decisions of a zillion small things and a few very large ones, I can see the surface very clearly—even reach it with my fingers and poke my head out from time to time.  It’s going to be fine.  And goodness gracious, SO MUCH to be grateful for. 

And 2024, I can’t leave this subject without mentioning what your days revealed about my brother.  There are years probably in the late 70’s and early 80’s I could have done without- my brother’s merciless teasing and just all around horrible behavior towards this little sister—all normal stuff, mind you, {I had some pretty horrible behavior of my own!} but, 2024, you held remarkable days for him as he helped lead us all through daddy’s sickness—driving him, taking care of him, sleeping over when he didn’t know what else to do, having countless conversations with the physicians, keeping all of us updated, tiptoeing around his daddy's dignity and loss of independence--- and knowing when to call me when he needed me.  What a gift.  From “hospice pizza parties” to tears of grief to handling every detail of the estate with joy and ease, you revealed things about my brother that only makes me love him more.  {You tell those few years in the late 70’s early 80’s that those ridiculous days didn’t do any permanent damage.}

Blake in his best role yet. {Although he nailed Daddy pretty well.}

Will I ever stop thinking about all of that?  I bet people wonder since it seems to be the only thing I ever write about now.  2024, you have made your mark with that loss but you had more to offer too.

Time, trips, meals and laughter with the best friends in the world. Experiences with my extended family that continue to fill to overflowing the family storehouses of love and commitment to one another. You held months and days of watching toddlers grow tall, infants grow into toddlers and babies birthed that only add to the joy of being family.  Jeff and I took 10 of your days to learn significant things about ourselves in Seattle and then headed to Glacier National Park to do some of that pondering again.  God was faithful to meet us in that span of time.  You gave days for a small church to grow under God’s mighty hand—where people have experienced community for the 17th time or for the 1st time, surrendered to a relationship with the One who has always loved them, learned what it means to look outside of themselves and be a part of something greater.  

These are special things on all your white squares, 2024. Eternal things.  Those, for sure, were your finest days.  Things that won’t be forgotten like the day I stayed home and read a book all day or when I bought that new shirt. Nope. I already don’t remember the name of the book or the color of the shirt but I remember the faces of those I love and of those I am just getting to know experiencing God’s love and personal care in a myriad of wondrous ways—in the hard, in the good and in the mundane. 

Do you know Psalm 90?  I bet you do.  Verse 12 specifically. After all, as “2024”, your time was created by God, allowed by God, ordained by Him.  In a sense, He numbered your days just like He does mine, I guess.  But as the one created by Him in His image, walking these actual days, I have to choose whether or not to “gain a heart of wisdom”--  to allow the God who made these days teach me something, empty me of my selfish, self-protective behaviors, fill me with His death and His life, shape me into something that can actually give Him glory…. Imagine that.   

It has taken me until the bottom of this second “page” but I’ve figured out your role, 2024.  You held the space that gave me the opportunity—to number my days aright and to gain a heart of wisdom—day by day by day.  I see your neighbor, 2025, before me-- many, many white squares—all brimming with possibility and opportunity and I have some choices to make. 

Even though we are 27 days removed from you, I won’t “put you to rest”.  You will go with me, shaping future thoughts and perspectives, providing a lens I didn’t have before as I walk through 2025. 

Well, 2024, I like you.  You did a good job…. God used the span of time He gave you-- holding the space for things that feel sacred to me now… things I'll never forget... things that changed me.  So, thank you.