I’ve spent the past few weeks reflecting on 2023. Accomplishments, struggles, points of joy, rush of tears. And looking forward towards 2024. The precipice of new chances, new beginnings, possible endings, and the brink of the unknown. There is a lot I’ve wanted to say. To write down. But I haven’t managed to put it all into adequate words.
So, instead- here’s my word for 2024 —> S P A C E <—
As in: making space in my life for new things. Clearing out clutter that weighs me down. Making space for new people, new opportunities, new feelings, new experiences. As in: holding space for others. Meeting them where they are, without judgement. Accepting them as they are, without expectation. As in: giving space to situations and circumstances, without anxiety.
2024 will not be “my year” or “the best year ever.” Like any other year or day, it will be a mixed bag. There will be causes to celebrate, heartbreak to endure, and love to give and receive.
Let us meet each new day with a replenished store of grace to offer others, joy for ourselves, and hope for our world.
Tonight, a family has lost their 22-year-old daughter. Tonight, 150 miles away, a family has lost their mom, their wife, their grandmother.
Tonight, I feel broken and exhausted; weighed down by grief. My tears, hot and angry, question the purpose of suffering. The inexplicable complications of life. The meaning of … everything. Why we love. Why we die. And mostly, WHY must we lose the people we love.
This is Holy Saturday. A sacred time of reflection in the darkest of days before the single most important day in our Christian faith. Sunday- Easter morning, all the churches will sing their Alleluias and proclaim the resurrection of the Messiah. There will be trumpets, brass bands, smiling robed choirs, brightly colored dresses, and newly shined shoes. We as a united people of faith will exalt in the promise given to us that Jesus died for us, to deliver us from sin and death, and lead us to the kingdom of God.
Sunday morning.
But tonight… Tonight it is dark. Quiet. Mournful. Tonight is full of anguish, questions, and anger. Tonight, it is difficult to think of Jesus healing the sick when so many people I know suffer from illnesses and traumas perpetrated upon them. Tonight, it is difficult to remember how Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead when innocent lives have been taken through random accidents or intentional violence. Tonight, my faith wavers because I can find no answers to my questions.
Those who grieve new loss tonight, on the eve of Easter morning, likely can see no hope of the sun shining again. Maybe they cannot imagine there being truth in a distant promise of redemption. I can understand that because I’ve been in that darkness before. I have lived there, gasping to breathe, praying for deliverance even when I could not see a possible way for it.
Those who suffer tonight, choking on the questions in their throats, are desperate for answers. I have none. I have no pretty words to soothe. No platitudes to dish out on fancy trays or champagne flutes of trite clichés to swallow down in one easy gulp.
Through my own dark night of the soul, I asked plenty of my own questions. Screamed them. Shook my fist at the sky. Cursed God. Cried. Prayed to God. Begged for the cup of grief to pass from me. And when it would not, I dug deep within myself to search for whatever of value remained. What I found, when I was brave enough to look, was love. A deeper empathy for others. A flash of understanding that life is temporary, and that is precisely what makes it so special and valuable. I discovered that the people in my life who love me are what deserves my closest attention, and that every moment of Now demands to be lived.
If in your darkness you cannot yet see the sunlight of Easter morning, I hope you can at least feel the warmth of that light as it surrounds you. And I hope you choose to lean into it.
“I still believe You’re the same yesterday, today, and forever. And I still believe Your blood is sufficient For me.”
Shelley Jinks Johnson 