New LifeBlog / Produced by The High Calling
I was supposed to start my new life today.
You know--the one where everything is neatly organized and structured so I can be a much more productive person?
I set my alarm for an hour earlier so I could get to my Read Through the Bible in a Year readings before I have to get ready for work and shuttle the boys off to school. About halfway through Noah’s flood I received a call telling me--in that creepy automated voice--that our county schools are on a two hour delay.
I moved to the window and flipped on the porch light. Sure enough. White out.
A quick perusal of the area news told me that the interstate is closed secondary to numerous accidents.
I’m not going anywhere today.
I finally deposit the boys at school (two hours later). Now, I sit here. Deflated. My plans are foiled again; my productivity in the dumpster. The day stretches out before me. This wasn’t in the Big Plan.
Then it hits me. Maybe making a difference in this New Year is about more than the big things. Maybe it’s about more than working better and exercising more and finishing that big writing project. Maybe it’s also about the little things. Maybe it’s about filling the bird feeder and watching that vibrant red flit across the snow. Maybe it’s about sitting down and writing a letter (a real letter--not a note) to a faraway friend. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s about letting oneself be vulnerable enough to cry with someone.
I think that’s part of what Lore Ferguson is trying to tell me in her latest post.
Yesterday I got an email from a friend across the world; he asked for a blog post filled with excitement, life and a hope for the future. I'm asking for the same thing, though I'm hoping it manifests in my life before I put it in a blog post. But he's right for asking and I appreciate that. Today, from the stirrings of the morning until now, sitting on a friend of a friend's couch while they shop for dinner, I try to plan what this year could look like. Without my fettering, without my strings, without my school-debt, without my lease, without my fear: What does two-thousand-ten look like?
photo by Elizabeth Weller used with permission