It’s been a few weeks. Three of them whipped off the calendar page in a big gust of January wind, and I sit here trying to chase them down.

I haven’t been feeling awesome for the last few weeks. January has felt like a hangover compared to December. December was so good. November was so good. And then January hits, and all I want to do is sleep. And, no, as far as I know, I’m not pregnant.

I’m not sure if it’s my diet. Maybe I should quit dairy like I’ve done wheat and oats and caffeine and most processed sugar. Food allergies run rampant in my family.

I’m not sure if it’s my job. I put a lot of pressure on myself there.

I’m not sure if it’s my kids. My son had a rocky start to the second semester and getting him back in the swing of things was definitely stressful.

I’m sure the fact that not practicing yoga like I have for the past two years isn’t helping.

But long story short, I feel like thieves came January 1st and stole all my energy, taking my shitzpa and mojo with them.

I’m feeling low and slow and sleepy and overwhelmed. Sapped.

I haven’t been writing. Haven’t felt like writing. Getting my fingers to move across these keys feels like a chore. It feels like starting over for the 6,658th time in my life.

I haven’t been praying as much as I should either or reading God’s Word, but I started again yesterday. Woke up again early today. And here I am typing away for the first time in three weeks. Huh.

I’ve talked to my husband and my mom, my sister and brother. I’ve cued in some of my friends, “Hey there. I feel like crap.” They’ve been more than obliging to listen to my struggle and offer their support. God bless them. God bless them all.

I don’t know what all this is, this midafternoon desire to curl up on the couch and sleep away the rest of the day. I don’t know what this is, this anxiety that’s pushing against my ribcage. But I know I’ve experienced it before. It comes and goes, ebbs and flows in different seasons in my life. I’m sure you can relate.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Wait for it to pass. Lace up my exercise shoes. Talk to my doctor. Pray. Be honest with those I can trust. Write. Be shored up by the assurance that life is hard, but God is here…life is hard, but God uses all of it. That’s why he shared all of those stories with us in the Bible, to show us how he works in good and bad things. There is purpose in pain. In Joseph’s. In Paul’s. In Ruth’s. In Esther’s. In Dana’s, too.

Sometimes I get to the end of a hard time, and I can turn around and see where the pain brought me, how all the rocky places sanded down my rough edges. Sometimes, that meaning is hidden away, stored up for a later date when it’s meant to be revealed. Usually those times I have waited for understanding have resulted in the deepest, most satisfying joy.

Until then, the clear, unmuddled part of myself reminds me that God uses it all. He sees me. He hears me. He brings purpose to my pain. There is a reason for all things. This too shall pass.

It’s been a few weeks. It might be a few more, but in these searching times, when my eyes feel cloudy and I can’t see the point or the end, I hang on to the One who’s just beyond my sight. My grip around His hand, a little bit tighter. His grip on me, overwhelming.

The best meal I ever ate was when I was eleven or twelve.

I didn’t even sit at the table. I sat on the floor, on the beige carpet of a middle-class home in Lincoln, Nebraska. My family had been invited to supper by a family who went to our church, by the almost worn-out custom of having the pastor over for dinner. I was a kid, sitting on the floor, eating off the coffee table.

There was nothing special about the home or the house, the neighborhood or the city. We weren’t celebrating an occasion or a holiday. It was just dinner, their family of three, our family of six. Nine people, from toddler to mid-forties. Midwestern people on an ordinary night, probably a Friday, during a time of year that I can’t remember.

It was one of the only meals I have experienced where every speck of food on the table was eaten, from the meat platter to the salad bowl. Every leaf, every crumb, every shred. Prime rib that I can still taste, marinated and grilled and cut in thin slices. Baked potatoes, starchy and buttery. And a Caesar salad with tangy dressing and homemade croutons, served up in an acacia wood bowl. Dinner rolls. I think there were dinner rolls.

But beyond the food was the laughter. I wish I could remember just one story, just one anecdote, but I can’t. I just remember the laughter. From one story to the next, we laughed until we cried. I’m surprised no one choked on their prime rib.

I don’t know now if I found so much humor in the stories that the adults told or if I simply found their laughter contagious: my mother’s head tilted to the side, my father’s shoulders heaving in silent, breathless bursts, glasses removed to wipe his eyes again and again.

That meal is the reason I love having people around my table. That meal is the reason I have always wanted an acacia wood salad bowl. It’s the reason I love simple meals with friends on ordinary Friday nights in the middle of the school year. Because I love people. I love hearing their stories. I love good food and a glass of wine. So simple, but marvelous again and again, the magic that happens around a dinner table.

The older I get and the more years I see fly off the calendar, I realize that there are a few really good things in life. And no matter who you are or how much you have or don’t have, everyone has access to these really good things. I used to think that celebrities and rich people, beautiful people and the insanely accomplished had the edge with their praise and access to all the things money can buy. But I really can’t imagine a meal they have had that I haven’t had: one with good food and good friends. One where we sit around a table or on the floor, with stories and laughter, like humans have done together for thousands of years. Coming together to feed each other.

I think this is why God describes heaven like a big banquet. It’s something we understand. And that’s what heaven’s about: being together with each other, being with God. I wonder what kind of stories we’ll share, how much we’ll laugh, how happy we’ll be. In the meantime, we can practice here on earth.

January, January. The month of starting over. The month of diets, putting away the Christmas tree, re-budgeting. Blech.

At least that’s how I’m feeling. Blech. I’m back to work, back to the routine, back in my house with all the luggage to put away, pine needles to sweep up, bills, and stuff that needs fixing.

Everything on the outside needing to be done feels like a manifestation of my insides. There is stuff to put away (grudges, worries). There is stuff that needs re-budgeting (priorities, how I use my time). There are goals and dreams and hopes I’d like to make happen (write that book, pray more, be a more present mother). I want to read more, travel more, organize those family photos, and learn to express myself eloquently when speaking.

Quite a list, isn’t it? And I gave you the short one. It’s never been hard for me set goals. I’m a natural-born evaluator. It’s always been in me to look for ways to improve. In some ways, this proclivity has helped me. I am always looking ahead and this has helped me in both my personal and professional life.

But constantly straining for the future has also held me back. I rob myself of contentment because I think about all that needs to be done or accomplished. I put off enjoying the present moment, because my to-do list gnaws at me. I set unrealistic expectations and ensure myself of disappointment. And I put off many needful things in favor of immediate needs. This causes conflict inside. And it makes me tired, a lot.

When I was in Wisconsin for Christmas break, my husband and I took a walk around his old neighborhood one night. The moon was just coming up between the bare tree branches. We walked down his lane to the road that runs in front of Lake Sinissippi. The sun was just setting, and everything was quiet, wrapped in dusky light. Gray sky. Gray trees. Gray frozen lake.

Ryan pointed out the hill where he and his buddies would sled down, over the county road and onto the frozen lake. He showed me where he would cut through the field to walk home, where his friends lived, which houses were new, which ones had been there forever. Quite literally, a walk down memory lane.

It was New Year’s Day, and it was nice to look back and be quiet. To think and reflect. To walk slowly around a neighborhood, carefully across a frozen lake.

I don’t want to spend the first four weeks of the new year tearing my life apart. I just don’t. I want to sit here and be quiet. I want to think about everything I have. I want to reflect a bit. I want to look back and figure out the things that have worked and those that haven’t.

Moving on is good. Hopes are good. But I need a foundation. I need the things that are important in place before I plunge into this new year. So I’m going to spend the next few weeks looking back and writing about my past. And I hope that will clear the way for the future.

Dear Lord,

Thank you for this new year. I have so much to be grateful for. Thank you for the chance to start again. Thank you for the hope you give me and for being unchanging, constant, and always full of grace. Please help me to find a little quiet time in every day to pray and to reflect this January. Help me to keep the needful things, prayer and reading your Word, in the forefront of my life. Amen.