dancing toward bethlehem. //

If there is only enough time in the final
minutes of the 20th century for one last dance
I would like to be dancing it slowly with you,
say, in the ballroom of a seaside hotel.
My palm would press into the small of your back

as the past hundred years collapsed into a pile
of mirrors or buttons or frivolous shoes,
just as the floor of the 19th century gave way
and disappeared in a red cloud of brick dust.

There will be no time to order another drink
or worry about what was never said,
not with the orchestra sliding into the sea
and all our attention devoted to humming
whatever it was they were playing.

-Billy Collins, Dancing Toward Bethlehem

I guess there's a special kind of reverence to be had, watching an era slip away, but when the clock struck midnight on December 31st, 1999, I was four years old, probably in bed in our old house. As my parents no doubt rejoiced that Y2K hadn't wreaked havoc on their computer systems, I slept peacefully. I had no idea that a century had just turned over, something most people alive at that moment would only experience once. In fact, it wouldn't be for another 10 years that New Year's Eve meant anything to me at all.

But I think as the years roll on, they start to carry new importance for me. You can look back at what the year has brought, listen to the Greatest Hits of 2014 on the radio, and realize that there is a unique quality to every year, that as the cheesy adage goes about the snowflake, no two are completely alike. And we can either be incredibly relieved to watch the clock tick past midnight, or we can be sad to see it go. But either way, it does. And all you can do is carry the memory.

 I could talk about everything that happened to me in 2014, but that would be incredibly boring to everyone except the few people that went through those things with me (okay, maybe even to them). I could also talk about everything that happened of world importance, like how Robin Williams died and we will all miss him, or how all those planes disappeared in Asia and no one knows where they went, or how Iggy Azalea showed the world both that white girls can rap, and that spiders can be made into really hot metaphors. But we've all heard that, too.

What matters is 2014. The whole year. Another year that we got, every one of us, filled to the brim with new blessings and new hardships and everything else that God chose to pour out. Regardless of whether we think of it as a "good year" or a "bad year," it's still a gift. It's still another 365 days that we got to be on this earth with other people: people we love easily, or try to love, or, in some cases, love in ways that we wish we didn't. It's another year with four seasons, and new experiences, ones that we appreciate and ones that we don't. And yes--the reality of the thing is that those planes did disappear, and two of my friends have lost loved ones in the past week, and this year will forever cast a dark shadow on the lives of many, many people. But that doesn't mean that it didn't mean anything, that it wasn't exactly what God had in store for us at this moment in our lives, at this moment in history. 

So tonight, as the clock strikes midnight, whether you're surrounded by joy and excitement or bitter mourning, remember: there will never be another 2014. Ever. We will get more years, all different kinds of them, but once December 31st 2014 turns into January 1st 2015, that's it. And all we can do, as another year drops away into nothing, is be thankful. For the good, and the bad, as painful as that may be. Because on the perfectly-crafted roadmap of our existence, 2014 is just another dot, just another stop along the way, but it's taking you somewhere, and me, and everybody else.

Now that I'm older, I'm determined to watch the passing of the years with special reverence. I will not sleep through the milestones, through the stops along the road, as if they could somehow be anything but significant. Each one means something. 2014 meant something, and 2015 will mean something different. And all we can do is rejoice in all of it, and take what we've learned, and march forward into what comes next. 

one year. //

I walked in for the first time on a cold, bitter, late-afternoon in December. the lights were on, shining through the few front windows and the skylight in the sanctuary.

inside, the chairs had been set out all in rows facing the front. a few people were sitting near the front, commenting on the placement of the chancel and the communion table and the chairs for the pastors. I put my coat down on one of the chairs, and smiled excitedly at the other musicians. this was it.

we had spent the last year in construction and preparation and legal negotiations. we painted and put up walls and built the choir loft. we spent hours turning an old motorcycle showroom into a church. and periodically, we gathered in the empty, unfinished sanctuary and sang hymns. and we couldn't wait for what this place was going to become.

and here I was, the night before our first worship in our building. this place was all our own--the thing we had prayed for and waited for and worked for. there was the baby grand piano in the corner, shiny and beautiful and waiting for someone to play it. I had wheedled my way into being the first Trinity pianist to get to play in the new building, and now I sat down and played for the first time, and the sound resonated through the space.

being there felt amazing and too good to be true and completely bizarre all at once. I couldn't believe that we were really here: that everything had come together, and that the next morning, the church family would be here, rejoicing and singing and passing joyous and thankful and excited peace. as I sat behind the piano, I looked out at the sanctuary, and I tried to imagine what it would be like to worship here Sunday after Sunday, to have this place become truly ours, to have a real church after so many years.

it has been better than I ever could have imagined. people talk about a house becoming a home, when you fill it with the people you love, and that has been a million times more true with our church. as this year has gone by, it's gone from being "the building" to church. it's the place we worship, and sing and fellowship. it's the place we potluck, and hold babies and pray together. in this place, we've been through death and marriage and baptism, together as a single unit. and it's only been a year.

when I think about what we've been blessed with, I'm so thankful. I could never have imagined that a building other than my own home could become so dear to my heart, but this one has. this past year has been an incredible gift, and I can't wait for the years to come, as our church becomes even beautiful and prosperous and rich with memories.

as in all things, soli deo gloria.