I think it’s no coincidence that January is where we find the season of Epiphany: it’s the celebration of God made manifest to his broken creation, the celebration of Christ as the True Light of the World.  Epiphany is exactly what we need.

At church on Sunday, we read the story of the disciples “forgetting to bring bread” when they are out on a boat with Jesus.  Our pastor pointed out the absurdity of this situation: How could they worry about not having bread when they’re in the company of the Bread of Life?

It’s the same short-sightedness that makes me  fret over the darkness of January.

The twinkle lights may be packed away in the attic for another year.
The cold may keep us tucked indoors for a few days.
The 600 days of January may creep by slowly, uninterrupted by holiday hoopla.
I may suffer disappointment as my resolution-energy fades and I come to terms with the fact that this may not be my year of perfection.

But there’s no darkness to fear when I know the True Light.

I’m trying to take back January this year.  I’m looking for light, looking for beauty, looking for joy.  I’m trusting that if I seek, I will find.

I have candles.
I have music.
I have my gift list.
I have my camera.

Who says there are no reasons to celebrate in January?  Not I, not anymore.

I started hearing myself: “We need an early nap today.”  ”We don’t usually like eggs.”  “We tend to get cranky before dinner.”

It was shocking, and then humbling when I realized how interdependent I have allowed our emotions to become: “Lindsey,” said the voice from the sky.  “Just because Abby is cranky does not mean that you have to be cranky.  Or that you are even allowed to be cranky.  Who is the grown-up here?”

Maybe she did get up too early.  Maybe I don’t feel great.  Maybe we have been off our schedule.  Maybe she is being unreasonable.  But I. Am. The. Mommy.

Hmm.  Easier said than done!

For example, I felt that way when I learned about the whole “Thirty-One” business.  Also the show Downton Abbey.  I’d never heard of those things, and all of a sudden people were talking about them everywhere I turned.

So it was just a few months ago that I saw a Pin about this concept of “First World Problems” (or “First World Pains,” if you’re on Twitter).   It’s a tongue-in-cheek way of reminding us privileged Westerners of the high standard of living that is built into our everyday complaints.  For example:

• I forgot to charge my iPod before I left home so now I have to listen to the radio in the car.
• The barista put whipped cream on my mocha after I specifically said “No whip.”
• My refrigerator stinks because my vegetables went bad before I could eat them all.
• My baby grew out of her clothes before she had a chance to wear all of the cute outfits I had in that size.

So you get the point.  It’s all in good fun, but it’s been a seriously helpful reality check as I listen to my own complaints throughout the day.  I don’t deny the inconvenience of the moment, but it’s a good perspective to remember that there are many blessings implied even in my complaints.

About a week ago I took this a step further and started thinking in terms of “First Wife Pains.” How many of my complaints about my husband come from the fact that he’s set the bar pretty high in our home?  The examples came readily:

• He cooked breakfast for all of us but left a dirty pan on the stove
• He dressed Abby in her illl-fitting jeans
• He forgot to sign out of Facebook on our shared computer
• It’s taking a long time for him to get my kitchen cabinets painted

Again…I think my point is clear.  How many wives would love to trade for my complaints!

Thinking in these terms doesn’t mean that I never get annoyed or frustrated, but it certainly does take the bitterness out of much of my complaining.

Just a lazy Saturday

I’d mop floors that were already clean, wipe down shelves that weren’t dusty, Lysol the bathroom that we never even used.

Now that I have Abby underfoot, I’m feeling really great if I get the dirty dishes from one meal cleaned up before I have to start the next one.

I’ve had to embrace what one of my favorite magazines calls “Good {Enough} Housekeeping.”  Isn’t that a great concept?

Here is what that looks like in my house:

1.  Not worth folding: baby washcloths, underwear, kitchen washcloths, Stephen’s socks (they all look the same, and he doesn’t like the way I fold them anyway).

2.  Not worth organizing: books on Abby’s shelves.  If they’re all upright, it’s a good day.

3.  Not worth cleaning: anything that doesn’t look dirty (exception: toilets).

4.   Not worth owning: anything that needs to be ironed, anything that shows dirt, anything that is hand-wash or dry clean only, anything that cannot be easily replaced.

5.  Not worth doing indoors: any activity involving paint, glitter, or sand.  In Texas we can comfortably play outside 11 months out of the year.  There’s no reason to do arts and crafts on the dining table!

6.  Not worth cleaning up after: Indoor pets.  Phoebe and Callie, our once beloved surrogate children, now live entirely outdoors.  The house stays much cleaner, and I only have one small one underfoot.

7.  Not worth holding onto: Magazines.  The first time we moved, I literally packed a (very heavy) trunk full of back issues of my favorite magazines.  I’ve finally come to terms with the fact that I don’t need to re-read them, I won’t ever keep up with filing favorite articles from them, and they’re not that attractive on my bookshelves.  So as soon as I’m finished reading, into the recycling they go!

8.  Not worth filing: bills.  We have so few paper bills these days, my 12-month accordion file was needlessly large and complicated.  I throw all bill receipts into a shoe box (therefore, they’re “filed” by date–newest on the top!).

(Actually, one small detail that might be important: crop your pictures to the size you want–I used 8×10–BEFORE adding text, so that you can type up to the margins and not worry about losing anything in printing)

Hopefully I’ll make some progress on all fronts this year. But I’m not expecting perfection; these have more or less been my resolutions for the past ten years, so I’m conceding they’re my trouble spots.

The most embarrassing failure of last year’s resolutions was my goal to write 52 just-because handwritten letters.  I’m actually not as bothered by all the letters I never got around to (about 4o, give or take a few) as by one that I actually sent.  Can I just air my dirty laundry here?  It might make me feel better.

The first letter I wrote was to an old friend that encouraged and loved me through a couple of very difficult high school years.  She promptly responded with a long, warm letter catching me up on all that she had been doing since we spoke last.  I fantasized in my head about how much fun it would be to meet up for coffee and to become friends again as two adults.  But I never wrote back.  It wasn’t until July that I realized how clearly her letter invited and expected a quick response.  I wrote immediately, but I couldn’t make up for all those months I’d been silent.

I’m very ashamed of my thoughtlessness, and I’m disappointed that I lost the chance to gain a wonderful, wise friend.  Not my best moment of the year, clearly.

But that’s what I love about New Year’s.  It’s a clean slate, a chance to think about what should be instead of what has been.  And even though I do not have history on my side, every January I truly believe that this will be the year I’ll be the me I’ve always wanted.  More disciplined, more thoughtful, more confident, more wise.

And if not, there’s always 2013.

I didn’t call in, but I played along in my head, and for 2011 I called it a tie between two words: “purpose” and “intentional.”  I considered the goals I had made for myself–all ambitious, well-intentioned resolutions to kick my laziness and use my time effectively once and for all.  These two power-packed words seemed to be broad enough to encompass the scope of my goals from prayer journaling to meal planning.

But then I got pregnant, and I spent January and February laying on the couch eating Cheerios and letting Abby watch too many Baby Einsteins.  By the time I felt better, my New Year’s enthusiasm had worn off, I was back in my ususal routines, and it seemed pointless to start a bunch of new habits right before we brought a newborn into our family.

Then, of course, came the summer.  June was the month I felt sorry for myself: I had no clothes that fit and no relief from my children battering me and no friends who liked me.

July was the month where in one moment I had Cheerio in my belly, the next moment I had Sam in my arms, and in the third moment I had nothing left to hold but little inked footprints on a card and wisps of hair in a plastic baggy.

When I actually had reason to feel sorry for myself, I was overwhelmed instead by the power of the love that surrounded us and the power of a faith that had proven itself to be real.

In the months since then we’ve been counting backwards: this many days, weeks, months, without Sam.  This many days, weeks, months that we’ve been given strength for another day.

Forget purpose.  Forget intentionality.  2011 was the year of grace.

Grace to see that it is not my own purposes that determine my steps.
Grace that heaps blessing even when I fall short of my best intentions.
Grace to see the gifts I’d been taking for granted.
Grace to see God’s hand in every minute.
Grace to see God working more through my weakness than he ever had through my strength.

Amen, and Amen!  And who knows where 2012 will lead?

I really love this, in theory.  Stephen and his brothers grew up running around their property with slingshots and BB guns.  I would love to see Abby grow up to be (reasonably) fearless and strong; I want her to be curious and scrappy and not dependent on me for her security.  Unfortunately, the biggest obstacle to Abby being a rough-and-tumble Free Range Kid is…me, her neurotic, paranoid mother who imagines axle-cutting carjackers around every dark corner.

I don’t know where my constant worry came from, or really when it began.  But I realize that it is not rational, and that it’s a bit of a problem.  So, for the sake of my child, who should not have grow up into a timid little mouse, I must first become a Free Range Mom.  Yesterday I made a big, brave step: I took Abby for a walk at the city park.

Stephen and I found this wonderful walking trail last weekend.  Right in the middle of town, it’s a wide, paved sidewalk that winds through trees, across little babbling brooks, and beside green fields.  10 yards down the trail, the road noise is literally drowned out by the sounds of wind and insects.  It’s quiet, relaxing, and secluded.  Thus, it’s appeal…and it’s obvious danger.

After carefully weighing the risks, I decided to venture out.  Here’s how it went down:

Approaching the entrance to the walking trail.  A city worker is welding on part of the hand rails.  I make eye contact with him (Don’t even think about it, buddy…I could identify you in a line-up, now), and smile.  He makes a comment about the nice day.  I respond politely and keep walking at my brisk pace.  Although he seemed nice enough, I look back over my shoulder a couple of times just to make sure I’m not being followed.

I’m barely out of sight of the parking lot and I decide to turn off my iPod and enjoy the sounds of the wind and the water.  It’s so relaxing I barely even remember how much bravery I am demonstrating just to be here.  My mind wanders and I enjoy the mental meandering.

Passing my favorite part of the trail- a large rock spillway with two loud waterfalls.  I imagine my flexible future self stopping to let Abby stick her feet in the water and splash around.  Of course, as soon as she was finished I would cleanse her with a sanitizing wipe to remove the amoebas from her little hands and feet…but I digress.  I consider parking the stroller by the bench and reading my magazine for a while in this picturesque spot, but since it’s really sunny and Abby is in long sleeves, I decide against it and keep walking.

Stephen calls between classes to check in and finalize our plans for the evening.  I make sure to mention that I am at the park.  “It’s two o’clock and I’m passing the spillway,” I say, hoping that he will remember this detail if I turn up missing and they need to know where to send a search party.  We agree to meet at our house at five.

The trail is open to the public, but many of its features are still under construction.  The signs of workmen are everywhere.  Along the sides of the path there are plastic Gatorade bottles stuck in the branches of trees and assorted wrappers on the ground.  It’s like the trail that Hansel and Gretel might have left if they had stopped at 7-11 for some snacks instead of bringing their own bread.

Around the next bend in the road I see sunlight glinting off of a truck.  More workmen!  I debate whether to turn around before I get too close and they have a chance to see me.  Finally I lift my chin resolutely–onward!  The men are actually not that close to the trail; they are clearing some brush in the distance.  I wonder– who is more likely to bother me– one solitary welder (no witnesses) or three heavy equipment operators (pack mentality)?  I start to feel slightly guilty about my elitist prejudice.  These are probably very nice men who would just as soon come to my aid if I needed it.  But…I’m a good Calvinist and I believe in the total depravity of every man.  Am I crazy for being out here without a concealed handgun to defend myself?

Further down the trail.  I do not seem to have been followed.  I allow myself to enjoy the sun shining on the different colored grasses, and scope out prime spots for this year’s Christmas card picture.

30 minutes and 1.25 miles later, I come to the end of the trail.  It dead ends at a different busy road.  I make a mental note that if I ever have an emergency on the second half of the trail, I can flag down help here.

Triumphantly, I tap my sneakered foot agains the curb and do an about-face.  Now Abby is facing away from the sun and I open up her stroller shade to let her enjoy the fresh breeze.

About halfway back down the trail, I spy two moms pushing their strollers in my direction.  As we get closer, I want to salute them, “Hello, fellow brave travelers!”  But I settle for eye contact and a smile.  One of the moms is also walking a dog that she calls Bella.  This gets me thinking about Twilight, which is a pleasant way to spend the next quarter of a mile.

Past the bulldozing workmen, past the spillway, past the litter.  Before long I can see the welder working industriously at the entrance.  He seems to have made good progress down the railing, which makes me almost 100% certain that he has  not been following me this whole time.  His back is to me, and he startles a little when he hears me approaching.  “You scared me,” he laughs as I walk past.  Ironic.

I am now walking beside the busy street, and now I’m back in the parking lot.  I get Abby strapped into the back seat, and the stroller stowed in the trunk.  We drive off toward home, unscathed and stronger than ever before.