Stealing from Ann Kiemel

Before Erin arrived at Michelangelo's Monday morning to meet me for coffee, I thought about how I'd share the 10,000 thoughts circling in my brain. I figured it'd be best for her to spin some sort of wheel-of-fortune and land on one of eight or so major issues. This has been (and continues to be) a week of milestones - some difficult, some hopeful, some surprising, some fabulous. Some, actually, all of the above.

My friend Courtney Walker, age 25, died of cancer Sunday night at 7 pm. She'd been sick for about a year and a half. It still boggles my mind. Shelly had spent the week before her death with Court's family and closest friends in Madison, South Dakota. She'd tell me about picking out the clothes Courtney would wear at the funeral, how they'd been discussing who could serve as pallbearers, Courtney's constant sleeping and confusion on waking, and how she slowly let go.

Her funeral is today at 2 pm.

Tomorrow at 6 pm, I'll be celebrating Brenda's last few days as a single woman when we head to the Sundance Saloon for her bachelorette party. She gets married at noon this Saturday. She is marrying a wonderful man named Scott. I expect they will be extraordinarily happy. I am thrilled to be standing up beside her.

Weddings and deaths and everything in between. In only one week. It makes it hard for me to fathom God's schedule. How many deaths, births, weddings, heartbreaks, moves, new jobs, disasters, joys does He see every week?

Trying to make sense of something my brain is far too slow and small to comprehend leaves me speechless. Fortunately, my memory led me back to something that was said 30 years ago by a young woman named Ann Kiemel. A poet and a writer, she wrote a number of beautiful and honest and all-together relevant words. One in particular, "new year's eve," came to mind. And sharing it may just help me make it through this one week.

new year's eve

it matters what you do with a year.
it counts. the old is the foundation
for the new.

new year's eve, 1974.
i threw a robe over my gown, slipped on sandals.
a warm cap over my ears, and gloves.
my world was black with night. the cold caught my
breath and made it white, and i laughed to
watch it and feel its sting on my face.
everything was still and quiet. i scraped up a
ball of snow and aimed it at the neighbors' window.
i threw three more and waited for them to look
out ... and laugh back ... and belong and BE at
the dawn of '75.

then i tossed snowballs in the night ... in all directions.
and called out,
"God, do you see me?
ann. in this old neighborhood. i'm alive, God.
i'm celebrating. YOU'VE made me live.
You've kept me strong. when i hurt, You did.
when i cried, You cried. when i failed, You knew ... but
You didn't shove me away. other would have.
they would have thought their judgment righteous and
proper. oh Jesus, not You.
You're love.
and love is strong. and faithful. and loyal.
and patient and kind.
Jesus, thank you.
'74 had agony and promise.
i still want to know so much more about Truth.
but i'm growing. i can feel it, God.
make 'something beautiful' out of me.
it's a NEW year. yahoooooo ..."

snowballs and flurries and miles of sky and bending trees.
and God and i and love
wanting to turn the world.
in small ways.
where people live and hurt.
because He loves us.
you. me.
anyone.

earlier that new year's eve, i popped corn in my new popper from
Christmas ... and took it downstairs to the girls who live below
me. We sipped Pepsis and stretched on the rug to watch t.v.
then they poured me eggnog, and we felt festive and
sophisticated, waiting for a new year.

today the unknown hours stretch and pull before me.
potential and power and poise.
eternity in my neighborhood, where i live ... i believe.