I open my brand new 2020 Weekly Calendar to begin my annual ritual. I carefully carry over the events that repeat year-after-year and log in those new activities scheduled over the past few months. There are birthdays, anniversaries, car registration renewals and volunteer work. There’s a trip to the airport, an upcoming dentist appointment and the long-awaited conference.
I mark them carefully onto the pristine, unspoiled pages that have yet to see any signs of white-out or scribbled entries added in the rush of a busy day. For now, my handwriting is neat and tidy. The yellow highlighter adds emphasis to those especially important entries.
When I’m done, I close the book and stare hard at the gold embossed numbers that grace its cover…2020.
What I expect to feel next simply eludes me, again.
There is no swell of hope and promise that should come with the dawn of a new year. No rush of joy that I’ve felt for so many decades before. Not this year, or last year, or the year before that. Not since 2016…when you left for heaven.
As I stare down the prospect of the 365 days before me, I surrender to emotions that can still catch me off guard.
You are not here and I remain heartbroken. The future is forever changed.
I set the calendar aside on my desk and forfeit my expectations.
Maybe, just maybe, next year…
the glorious feelings of the hope and promise of a new year will return to my heart.
Perhaps, therein lies a small measure of hope after all.
It will have to be enough, for now.
Romans 8:25 (NIV) But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.