Tomorrow I’ll be 33. I keep calling it my “Jesus year”. Maybe 30 was the death of me and this year is the third day where there is resurrection; my hopes, the desires of my heart.
I want to remain expectant.
No matter how many times I’m disappointed or hope is deferred. I want my spirit to rise and say “I still believe in the impossible becoming a tangible reality.”
It’s like I’ve been getting dressed to go to the dance every year. I choose what I’m going to wear and hang it up on the door where I can look at it. I carefully craft my hair so it behaves itself and thoughtfully put on my make-up. The whole time I’m dreaming of who will ask me to dance. And every year I go, I sway to the music, but I’m not invited to dance with anyone. I’m sad, I’m disappointed, sometimes I feel silly for all the thoughts and excitement of being asked. But every year, I go to the dance.
I never want to lose the child-like hopefulness that just won’t leave no matter how many times expectations are not met. I want to keep going to the dance no matter what because something inside me knows that one day my dreams will come true.
I can’t give up, I won’t run and hide. I won’t repeat the patterns of an old story.
No more walking through the looking glass and falling into dark holes that lead to nonsensical logic and lies parading as truth.
Someone asked me what my birthday wish was. It’s simple:
I want this year to be the one that marks a completely different chapter in my life.
“But I trust in you, Lord; I say, ‘You are my God.'”
“But now, Lord, what do I look for? My hope is in You.”