This cozy nook is where I spent much of 2020. As the days passed, I read, texted, prayed, reflected, and dreamed of what has been and what will come.
Here is where I sat as I lamented the evidence of blatant racism in our country, where I raged at the inexplicable ridiculousness of Christians defending a narcissistic leader, and where I cried as people denied the grave effects of a deadly virus indiscriminately traipsing across the world.
Here is where I sat as I prayed in Eucharistic Adoration with Pope Francis as he united Catholics one dark night in March, where I watched as our children schooled from home, learning despite the odds, and where I raced through books, both instructive and frivolous, matching mood swings of the days.
If our house has a center, this space is it, and in that center I watch as my family works and plays. This is my safe space, a place of comfort to return to day after day.
Usually, the turn of the year encourages renewal, promising newness and hope of what is to come. Today, all I see is a tomorrow that is reminiscent of yesterday.
To start the new year without the brash expounding of hopeful change feels strange, but it also feels right to let 2021 be a year when hope gets to sneak into our hearts.
Tomorrow you will find me, once again, in this chair, hoping to continue the slow intentional growth that 2020 so graciously gifted to me. Hoping to read and text and pray and reflect and dream even more deeply. Hoping to act decisively and for others when action is needed. Hoping to one day leave the comfort of this chair to gather with friends and family, and hoping to never take for granted the sneaky ways in which our souls grow as we ponder life’s challenges.