For those of you who know about my mild addiction to office supplies, it won’t come as a surprise that a new year isn’t only about goals and resolutions. It means I get to buy a new journal😊 Choosing one can be difficult, though. What kind of cover? Whimsical? Contemplative? When I peek inside, are there inspirational quotes or scripture verses sown in the margins? Lines to keep my penmanship and thoughts tidy or pages of white canvas that leave room for dreams and doodling? It’s kind of like standing in the frozen food aisle at the grocery store, trying to decide what flavor of ice-cream to buy!

It’s also become a tradition that before I crack open the cover of a brand-new journal, I read back through the previous year. You’d think I would remember sketching the sunrise over the lake or writing down passages of scripture that fed me throughout the day. The three pages of angst born from a solo retreat last spring. But no. Every time I turn a page, I’m humbled and amazed and, to be honest, a little terrified at how easy it is to forget the answered prayers. All those moments when God reached out and reached into my life. The times I felt perfectly content and at peace and the times when life—literally—turned upside down.

And that would have been January 2021, when I wrote this on the very first page of my brand-spanking-new journal. . .

This will be a year of praise and purpose, no matter what happens.

A few hours later, I slipped going down the front steps and broke my wrist.
Even admitting it makes me feel silly. I live in the land of snow and ice. I know that I’m supposed to be careful, walk like a penguin, etc. etc. And I thought I was. But we’d experienced a phenomenon called “freezing fog” that morning and my feet went out from underneath me. My back hit the step on the way down, so hard that I felt something pop, and then I bounced onto the sidewalk and landed on my arm.

I was so sure I’d broken my back that I didn’t really think about the numbness in my fingers at that point. Six hours later, I was home again, with pain medication, a bruised spine, and a cast on my right arm that went from elbow to fingertips.

I didn’t write in my journal again for five days but I can tell you what happened in that in-between time. I was camped on the couch, in pain and locked in a silent struggle with my thoughts, none of which I was inclined to put on paper lest my children or grandchildren read it someday and wonder who had stolen my journal and graffitied the pages with dark clouds and attitude.

I didn’t want to talk to God. Or my husband. Or my friends or family. All I could do was sit on the couch and stare out the window while my body started to heal. My spirit, however, was not keeping up. Everything I wanted to do—thought that I needed to do—required two working arms.

I was a writer who would be typing the final edits for The Gathering Table with one hand.

I was a person who understood the only way she could get through a northern Wisconsin winter was to get outside. Snowshoeing and hiking are essential for my mental health and I couldn’t do either one. I was in so much pain the first week, walking from room to room was a challenge.

Mix these with a Type A, get-it-done kind of person who likes to wash her own hair, tie her own shoes and cut up her own food and you would have seen a patient with very little patience for her current situation.
I’d been anticipating a year of “praise and purpose” and couldn’t see any purpose in losing my independence—which, in turn, made it difficult to praise God in the “no matter what happens”.

Because “purpose” for me often translates into “productive”. Things that I can measure. See. Things like the number of steps on my Fitbit. The number of words typed on a page. A mountain of vegetables on the cutting board, waiting to go into a pot of soup.
Being the person who helps, not the one who needs it.

The turning point came when I looked at my husband and said, “I’m not handling this very well.”

That he didn’t come back with, “You think?” is one of the many reasons I love him.

I got honest with God, too.

I pulled out my journal again and right above the “this will be a year of praise and purpose, I’d written these words,

Show me springs in the desert!

I can’t tell you why I’d written down that simple plea as I looked forward to a new year. But it changed my perspective even though my circumstances stayed the same.

Maybe because it involved taking my eyes off the terrain and focusing on God. Being thankful for the things I could do instead of the things I couldn’t.

Show me hope, God. That’s what I was asking. What I needed for the future and for the now. Show me you’re here. Show me you haven’t forgotten me. Refresh me.

And He did.

I needed springs in the desert and God provided. And when He provided, I praised. There’s something about thanksgiving. It opens up a watershed of grace—and grace always gives us the strength to go on.

Every so often, I feel a twinge in my wrist when I do something it doesn’t like. A reminder that sometimes healing takes a while. A reminder that I have to keep seeking, keep praying, keep leaning on God in the journey and praising His faithfulness.

For me, that means writing things down so I don’t forget to remember.