A New Year's Toast

Someone told me recently that I was "very organized".  I repeated the compliment later to my son Patrick, and he burst out laughing.

I wasn't offended.  I'd wanted to laugh as well.  My complimenter was sweet, but she didn't really know me.  

My sons know me very well.  Since childhood they've learned to deal with last-minute fixes and spur-of-the-moment plans. Once, when they were 4 and 6 years old, I got turned around on the drive to a friend's house.  As I searched for some familiar landmark, I decided that my duty as a mother was to explain the different farm buildings we saw (especially since we were supposed to be in the city).  A weary little voice from the back seat interrupted me. "We know you're lost, Mom. You don't have to make it educational."

There's something a little amazing and a whole lot freeing about being truly known. 

Many years ago, someone who wished me harm stole my personal journals.  A few pages were mailed out to friends and family in an attempt to embarrass me.

It worked, at first: I was beyond embarrassed. I was mortified. Dirty laundry I had written under wraps was now hanging from the clothesline, flapping in the wind. Then, slowly, I began to realize something. 

I was free. 

People would either love me with my warts, as a whole person, or they wouldn't. Period.  

The unexpected rush of freedom was amazing, but not as amazing as the notes and calls of support from those around me. Most had refused to even read my journal pages, once they realized what they were. I had braced myself to lose those I loved, but in my emotional nakedness, my loved ones chose instead to clothe me.  

I came to understand three things more deeply:
- in truth is freedom;
- mercy trumps judgment; and
- letting go is the only way to have what really matters.  Jesus really did have it figured out.

Last week, I lit a candle to make the air more "Christmassy" while I worked. The wick burned down, hollowing out the core and the candle broke apart. Wax spilled out, covering the top of the stove (which was off, fortunately, unlike the three times earlier this month when I'd left it on by accident). I walked into the kitchen in time to see flames shooting up. 

Grabbing the nearby canister, I tossed flour over the flames and they sputtered out. The air filled with the smell of burned wheat.

Seconds later, my son Adrian walked into the house. With only the mildest tone of curiosity, he asked, "So what did you burn this time?"

He knows me. And on this last day of 2013, I find myself grateful to have people who know me.

So here's to you, my family and friends, who've seen the good, the bad and the odd of me. I cannot thank you enough for your presence in my life.  

Here's to you, those I will come to know. I am honored that you are in my future.

Here's to each of you: may 2014 bring you a little adventure, a lot of laughter, and the freedom that comes from being truly known.

And if, at some point, you have cause to light a candle, please light one for me.

My children have decided I'm not allowed to anymore.