So long, 2019. To be fair, you had some high points. We shared some really exciting moments, and it was fun getting to know you.

Well, mostly it was fun. But sometimes it wasn’t.

I don’t want to sound ungrateful, 2019. I mean, we did make some amazing memories, you and I, and I appreciate those times for sure. Remember the quiet mornings when we sat with a book on the porch swing at the cabin and watched the sun as it rose above the rugged mountain peaks? Wow, 2019. That was incredible. Or the week when our troubles were swept away with each crashing wave that pounded the Carolina shore? I loved that week, 2019. I really did. The boys have grown and matured, and my oldest started driving – which still doesn’t even seem possible. You were with me when I let go of some old things and embraced some new things, when I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a different woman staring back, when I started imagining a future that I hadn’t been able to envision before. You didn’t spare much time for me to write last year, but you helped me rediscover who I am, take some risks, achieve some professional success, and go back to school. You reminded me that the writing will come, that every minute with my high school student is precious, and that every conversation with my middle schooler is more important than anything else I could be doing in that moment.

My heart is overflowing with gratitude for those moments. I’m thankful for the lessons, the wisdom, and the relationships that we cultivated together, 2019.

To be honest, I thought we were friends.

I didn’t realize how needy you were until you orchestrated such an ugly grand exit. It turns out you were kind of a jerk.

In these last two weeks, 2019, you got me thinking about how I want to be remembered. I want my legacy to be so much different than yours. I hope that the last thing I do is to help someone, to encourage them or feed them or share some meaningful, hard-earned advice. You know, something beautiful that my friends will reflect on in my absence – You heard the last thing that she did, right? Of course, she was helping someone! That’s just who she was! I’m not saying that will happen or that I’m deserving; I’m just saying that’s the legacy I would hope for.

That’s why I don’t understand what you were thinking, 2019. You chose a completely different path – and for that you will be remembered.

That’s the thing about tragedy. It is memorable.

Typically at this time of year, I feel inspired to write some profound reflections on the past twelve months and to shower the Internet with my eternal spring of hope for the future. That spring is still flowing, 2019 – surely you have noticed that I ABSOLUTELY REFUSE to allow any day or week or year to drain it – but there are ominous clouds hanging all over my community this week. One hovers right above my sweet friend’s home, and there is no ignoring its shadow. In our joy and celebration, in the glow of the fireworks and sparklers welcoming the promise of 2020, there has been pain. The deep, dark kind of pain that seeps like oil into every hollow space within your heart.

Listen, 2019, I’ve been around the block a time or two with some of your friends who’ve come and gone before, and I already know that Joy and Suffering coexist with us on this rotating planet. I also know that we often forget that both are with us, without fail, all of the time. When we celebrate, we don’t invite Suffering to the party; if she is excluded, then we can pretend for as long as possible that she doesn’t exist. And when we are suffering, we forget that Joy awaits nearby, clouded by the darkness. She is a loyal friend, patiently waiting until we can see through the thick fog and embrace her once again.

As you waved goodbye last night, 2019, even though you left our Worthington community peppered with black clouds and sorrow, I know that Joy was with us as we rang in the new year. Some people felt her warm hug as one year gave way to another. But for those who didn’t feel her presence, I hope that they will trust that she is quiet and she is patient and she is kind. I know that when their hearts are ready, when there is a bit of room where some of the sadness has leaked out, she will slip inside and fill each void. You may have delivered my family and friends some heavy blows, 2019, but I trust that our wins will outnumber our losses in the end. The human spirit is strong. God is good. And dark clouds, unless we tether them to us, gradually give way to the light.

But it takes a while.

As I grow older, every year passes quickly, but for some reason, 2019, you especially seem like a blur. I would have sworn that just yesterday I was sitting around a friend’s kitchen table with a small group of wonderful people getting stomped in a trivia game called Smartass. (That really is the name of the game, not just the name we used for my friend’s husband, who we now know is significantly smarter than the rest of us.) But that wasn’t just yesterday. It was New Year’s Eve 2018. Joy had a seat at the table. And so did our friend Jamey Shiffer.

We laughed and played games and stayed up too late. We gushed about how grateful we are for this community, how thankful we feel that our teenagers found such an amazing group of friends, how our kids were the catalyst for us parents finding one another. It’s a joyful, indelible memory of ringing you in, 2019.

So, seriously, how could you? We were so kind to you. We toasted your arrival. We cheered with excitement when you finally showed up at the party – even though you were the guy who didn’t make an appearance until midnight. But this week, right before we could bid you farewell, you stole someone from us.  You took an incredible husband, an exemplary father, and a loving friend from his beautiful wife and his daughters, whom we love so much. You left an empty chair at our New Year’s Eve table. You sucker punched us on your way out the door.

Last night was more somber, but we clinked our glasses to 2020 around the same table, together. There were some laughs and some tears, there was some joy and some pain, there was some sadness and a whole lot of love. There may have been some loud cheering when we heard that you, 2019, are now gone. There was Jamey’s presence and his legacy – so different from yours – the kind of legacy that makes you hug your friends more tightly and love your neighbors more generously and treasure the time with your family more passionately. And there was hope – so much hope that it spilled out of the windows and seeped under the doors. It enveloped the house and hovered over the street and floated like mist all around the neighborhood and beyond.

Because here is the greatest irony of all, 2019: The rain from your storm clouds is replenishing our spring. You thought that the downpour would drown us, but instead the heavy raindrops from your black clouds are soaking into our dry ground. They are trickling through all the cracks and crevices, and there is a silent transformation percolating beneath the surface. The pain will gradually – very, very slowly – be filtered from the rest until clear, fresh hope and the purest kind of love pour out.  And what was meant to break us will be given a purpose, a purpose and a hope that will nourish our souls.

Until then, we will keep our heads above water.   We will keep one another afloat.

So I welcome you, 2020! My heart is heavy, but I am happy to greet you and to accept your hope and your promise.  I am ready to prepare for the great things that you have in store for the people whom I love so very much.

And if you are sad today, this first day of 2020, remember that Joy is quietly waiting to slip into your heart.  She will be there when you are ready.  You will recognize her, like a friend whom you have dearly missed.

Here’s to happiness and healing in the coming year.

And to the Shiffer family, and to the other families in our community and in my hometown who also experienced tragic loss, we send you all of our love.