It’s been a month.
The stats don’t lie.
I wrote 168 posts the year before.
And I only managed to hit publish 71 times in 2012.
A graph chart of that would look pretty pathetic. And it would closely mirror any type of calculation of peace in the circumstances of my life.
The plague of “that thing I can’t talk about” that touches every area of our lives… it instilled a fear of writing about even anything at all.
A government entity demanding your entire online profile will do that.
Ironically, because I spoke up.
So 2013? Is not going to be about resolutions.
It’s going to be about not living in fear.
And if I needed to worry that my completely amazing readers would be joined by unfriendlies looking to dig up dirt here… then I’d rather address them head-on:
About my life.
About my family.
About my friends.
About my faith in Someone who makes it all worth it.
There is plenty of dirt in my life. It’s not hidden. It’s in painfully honest words all over my blog. I am insecure, burn dinner often, have 20 pounds to lose, am graying faster than I can dye, and I am.so.tired.
Instead of fixing the situation like we trust authorities to, “damage control” has been to undermine the words and experiences of an overwhelming majority of those who have witnessed my story.
In refusing to live in fear, this is as clearly as I can put it to you:
The best risk mitigation is to ensure that this never ever happens again.
(p.s… those aforementioned amazing readers and friends will be happy to share their thoughts once information reaches public domain. I hereby give fair warning of squirrels and elbutts and people who have their own pens and readerships and inability to ignore wrongs).
Thank you for sticking with us through a difficult 2012.
And for a real part of the writing I miss? It took weeks to filter and process. And I still feel pieces of Newtown every day.
That Friday, I was at work when the news rolled in. And each wave brought more horrifying details. I felt the overwhelming need to drive to Itty Bit’s school and just hold my not-so-itty boy.
When I arrived, he spotted me from across the gym and ran full force with a scream that lasted the entire way.
He’s done this as long as he’s been uprightly mobile. Open mouth scream-smiling as he races into a jump-hug with wild arms that swing to find eachother and squeeze the oxygen from me. At two years old it was devastatingly charming.
And at six years old, it was painfully healing to my grieving heart.
It was a wordless gratitude that the sweet first-grader in my arms… his mind had not been touched by the unspeakable horror of the day.
As I stood there surrounded by a room of running jumping laughing arguing skipping noisy children, a staff member approached me.
“I wish all kids were that happy to see their parents”.
I nodded, unable to speak as the tears spilled and I squeezed the boy whose sneakers now dangled almost to my ankles.
The nearby shooting and Itty Bit’s school lockdown several months ago were fresh in my mind. He’d walked away unharmed. And in that incredibly busily normal gym full of crazy kids… I hugged and hugged my son and ached for the parents who were being utterly broken.
I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to be more intentional. Grateful. And I have 216 Lego injuries to prove it. Life is so incredibly short – and each of you readers have been a huge part of the good in mine.
2013 is going to be good. Awesomesauce even.
What does your 2013 hold?