When the calendar flips to January 1, it’s popular amongst bloggers to post an “end of the year” or a “looking ahead to the new year” post. This year, I didn’t do either. I don’t know – I just wasn’t feeling it.

But now, just over 2 weeks late, I am ready.

2008 was dubbed the year of “The Living Big.” But this year, the theme will be… (drumroll please)…

“Take Action to Get Action.”

Yeah, I said it. (Sorry Mom.)

Now, before you go thinking that I’m going to morph into a brazen little hussy who leaves bars with strangers after taking shots of blue liquor, just calm down. That’s not what this is about.

This is about taking small steps each and every day toward what I want – or at least what I THINK I want – not expecting everything to happen all at once, but participating in what Eugene Peterson so brilliantly calls “a long obedience in the same direction.” Whether it be in terms of writing, or music, or vocation, or finances, or health, I will attempt to move forward one day at a time.

What does this mean? It means that I will do something every day. That sounds very generic and unparticular, I know, but my specific goals do not need to be publicized. I know what they are – I’ve written them down. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll not only hope for change, but begin to experience change.

But yeah, also, I’m going to look good in my jeans while doing it.

I’ve spent the morning writing letters – real letters, hand-written letters. And I am convinced that nothing is better for the soul. Lord Byron has a great quote: “Letter writing is the only device for combining solitude with good company.” That man is speaking my language.

There is something so special, so personal, about the exchange that happens when people take the time to hand-write a note, stamp and address it, and send it physically across the miles.

When I get real mail, it feels like Christmas morning.

When I write real mail, my heart overflows.

Someday, when I’m an old woman and my great-grandchildren find my boxes of letters, they will read words written to me when I was 6-years old. And 12-years old. And in college. And in love. And heartbroken, and confused, and happy.

And should anyone come across a note that I have written and sent out, they will know a piece of my heart that cannot be conveyed in emails, or even in face-to-face conversations – because the part of me that exists in written words may be just a sliver of who I am, but it’s a sliver that is very close to my soul.

Plus, I’m really good at writing in cursive.

On Saturday, it was my immense honor and privilege to take part in little Ben’s memorial service in Seattle. The entire service was perfect – every aspect, every detail, was so Ben – from the “Finding Nemo” medley played by the small ensemble, to the many references to the movie “Cars,” to his Aunt Kristen’s fabulous purple heels (Ben’s favorite color). The sight of his gorgeous face on the front of the program literally stole my breath – this was a stunning, remarkable child.

How did it come to this?

Sitting in the front row during the service, I could feel the wave of grief from the thousands of people behind me – the sorrow was palpable, thick. And as I stood onstage alongside my beautiful friends Catherine, Sue, and Robyn to sing, I saw the brokenness in the faces of the community, of the family, of Jeff and Carin. So many had hoped, so many had prayed, so many had pleaded with God to be merciful.

What do we do with our unanswered prayers?

It would be impossible for any child to be loved more than Ben, I am sure of it. And in his absence, there is a void, an ache, a sense that nothing will ever be right again.

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and there was no longer any sea. I saw the Holy City, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride beautifully dressed for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Now the dwelling of God is with men, and he will live with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” He who was seated on the throne said, “I am making everything new!” Then he said, “Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true. -Revelation 21:1-5

Come, Lord Jesus, come.

Yesterday, I did a Google Image search for “shingles” – and trust me, Internet, that is not something that you want to do.

I am not a hypochondriac, I promise. But I think I might have shingles. Yes, shingles: a form of HERPES. Julie, the soon-to-be nurse, checked out the small patch of – I don’t know, what should I call them? blisters? scabs? rash bumps? – and consulted a physiology textbook for reference. No conclusive evidence was found…

But I am calling it shingles.

Maybe it’s eczema. Maybe it’s psoriasis. Maybe it’s just… random shaving nicks that landed far from anywhere I use a razor? But I think it’s shingles. It might be an allergic reaction to high heels and elevator Muzak. It could be stress related – or punishment for an unconfessed sin – or perhaps my body’s way of saying, “Stop eating brie for dinner every single night.” But I think it’s shingles.

(Oddly enough, this is not the first time that shingles have been mentioned on this blog.)

As one without health insurance, I am combating this ailment with an old cure-all: baking soda. Seriously, is there anything that baking soda doesn’t do? It takes the stench out of a fridge. It cleans teeth. It erupts 5th grade science project volcanoes. And yes, it mixes with water to form a healing paste.

I sound like such a hippy. Who needs Mary Kay when you have castor oil? Who needs shampoo when you have egg whites? Who needs antibiotics when you have Arm & Hammer?

But… (ready for the segue?)… I spend enough money on my jeans to make up for my thrifty health and beauty habits. And yesterday on my lunch break, having a gift card from Christmas and a big need for some new fancy pants, I went shopping.

So, there I was in the dressing room, pulling on what seemed to be the perfect pair: long enough, dark enough, fit in all the right places. From the front, they seemed to get the job done, if you know what I’m saying. But then I did that awkward twisty-turn in the mirror to see my backside, and y’all:

They were smooth butt jeans.

You know the type – no back pockets whatsoever.

I’m sorry, but I don’t do smooth butt jeans. I am not in a rodeo. I need back pockets. Where else would I put my Benjamins when I club-hop? Where else would I stash all of the numbers on cocktail napkins? Where else would a boyfriend put his hands as we slowly and awkwardly waddle through the mall?

That is, if I haven’t completely blown my dating life by mentioning the fact that I HAVE SHINGLES.*

- – - – - – - -

*It’s probably not shingles.

All the single ladies
My pal Andy Merrick just posted the beginning of a 3-part series entitled “Why Guys Aren’t Asking You Out.” Andy is one of my favorite people to read, and this first installment had me laughing out loud. In fact, I was still in bed this morning, barely awake, reading until I giggled – at which point Julie yelled up the stairs (remember, I have no bedroom door), “Annie! Are you crying??”

Hey. A totally fair question.

I am excited to hear more of his thoughts in the coming days – and to read any comments you may have on the subject. Let Andy know what you think…

Lit at work
All of the lights in our gigantic, sprawling office space are operated by motion sensors – as long as there is movement in the room, the lights stay on. Because of this, when walking from room to room to set up for lunches or fetch cups of coffee for visitors, I feel as powerful as God: LET THERE BE LIGHT… and there was light.

However, this feature is significantly less cool when I have been sitting completely and utterly motionless at my desk for so long that the lobby lights just… go out. And then, even MORE significantly less cool when I, the Temptress, sitting in my T.J. Maxx version of “business professional” in the darkness of the silent room, frantically wave my arms above my head.

Let there be light, indeed.

And as a final FYI…
When I sneeze, the crystal vase on the desk rings. It is legit.

Last night, Mel asked me, “How do you decide what to blog about?” And after thinking for a second, I said, “Well, I just sit quietly each morning and ask, ‘What do I have to say today?’ And then I write it down.”

Some mornings, this is easy – my life is full of funny anecdotes, witty words, cheerful hope. Other days, I have a heavier burden weighing on my chest, and writing about it can be both challenging and therapeutic. Sometimes, it’s just the letter X – and it is my self-declared duty to figure out some direction to take it.

But today, all is quiet. The phone isn’t ringing, and I haven’t received any urgent emails. It’s kind of cold in the lobby here at work, so I’m wrapped in my green coat and thinking about microwaving some water to make hot tea. The mechanical pencil that I keep in my planner has a rubber grip on it, and it’s “sweating” some sort of oil onto my calendar pages – this bothers me. My hair is freshly dyed, dark and silky, and yet it doesn’t cover up my desperate need for a haircut. In a few minutes, I will balance my checkbook, like I do every day. I have eaten approximately 12 Altoids, and now I am chewing a piece of gum. Men will never comprehend the injustice of pantyhose. I think of the nightmare that I had last night, and the nightmare that I had a few weeks ago. I think of when I was younger and we had rabbits in hutches in the backyard. I think of my friend who threw up her breakfast this morning, and my friend who is officially in love, and my friend who is becoming less and less of a friend. My heart aches for the Townes.

What do I have to say today?

So much. So little. If only I knew.

Yesterday, my roommate got an email from a friend that said, “I just rented a movie. It turns out that ‘XXXmas’ does not stand for ‘Merry Merry Christmas.’” I laughed until I snorted.

X does present a problem, doesn’t it? I mean, I refuse to tell you about the time in 5th grade when I was chosen by my music teacher to play the xylophone at the school assembly for a performance of “Sakura,” a Japanese folk song. In my opinion, “xylophone” is a meaningless word invented simply to balance out alphabetized file cabinets and dictionaries.

But fortunately, my “Word of the Day” emails are paying off. Last week, I learned a timely new term:

xanthous \ZAN-thuhs\, adjective:
yellow; yellowish

Baby chicks and daffodils. Sunshine and canaries. As the dreary, despondent soul that I am, yellow is not really my thing. I have never been a big fan of the color, mostly because when I wear it, I look like a corpse – which is odd, because when my sister Becca wears it, the angels sing and bluebirds and butterflies land on her shoulders.

We have the exact same coloring. It bucks the laws of science.

In a moment of recent self-pity, I told my mother and sister-in-law that when it comes to love, I feel like a yellow Starburst: if it’s the only option, someone will choose it – but in a bowl of pink and red, the yellow doesn’t stand a chance. Ashley said, “Some people prefer the yellow Starburst.” Mom said, “You’re more like a chocolate truffle in a sea of pink and red… decadent and intense, and no one quite knows what to do with you.” It was all very sweet. And then my moment of wallowing passed, and I ate a cookie.

One of the worst Family Feud answers ever:
Question: Name something packrats have a hard time throwing out.
#1 Answer: Photos.
Worst Answer: Corn

Corn is yellow.

Yellow flag = penalty.
Yellow light = warning.
Yellow skin = jaundice.
Yellowbellied = cowardice.

The only color worse than yellow is baby blue.

And that’s all I have to say on the subject of xanthous.

This morning in our new house, because of a miserable failure on my part, we awoke to no heat and no hot water. We have spent the past 2 weeks with no internet, and since I left my phone charger in Kansas City after Christmas, I’ve been limping through with no real phone access. My closet doors fell off the tracks. My Chi hair straightener has mysteriously stopped working. I had a flat tire on Sunday night, and when I called AAA for help, was informed that my service had expired. To top it all off, the first time that Mel used the mug I gave her as a housewarming “happy to be roommates!” gift, the coffee flooded out through a crack in the bottom.

A lot of things in my life are broken. But none more so than my heart.

Little Ben’s broken body was taken from this broken world on Tuesday. And there are simply no words to express the grief, the anguish, the suffering of his family and community. It’s the most devastating tragedy I have ever experienced.

God is good. But life’s a bitch.