When I was around twelve years old, I didn't like seeing the new year come. I didn't want to get older, I didn't want to see the changes I knew were bound to happen, and I didn't like that feeling of cutting the old year off once and for all. It felt like a dying and a birth too close together.
Now I enjoy the yearly milestone. I see it more as gentle closure...God gave me an empty year the way my parents have given me blank journals. I filled it, and I'm ready for another.
Of course, as I always find with my handwriting, life ends up messier and more complicated than I had anticipated. As I misspell words and scribble hastily, I speak what shouldn't be said or don't take the time to finish my tasks to the degree that they ought to be finished. I spill ink and have to scrub the carpet--I disregard the commands of God and must accept the consequences.
Every once in a while, an entry ends up pretty and neat, but it would be foolish to think that I really had much to do with such a work of beauty. So I am assured that my sanctification continues, because of Christ.
The old year is a dear one, but it has been filled. The last page has been written, and it's time to stack it away with past years until times come when I wish to remember or share with others. For now, I smell the clean, crisp, unstained pages of the new year and pray that I'll have the childishness to ask my Father if He'll hold my hand and help me write.
(Image credit: http://www.sxc.hu/profile/typofi)