2015 was, well, a year.
It started with me yelling at God on the 55 southbound, in the midst of that magic Southern California winter light that makes it feel like late afternoon all day long.
I turned 24, and my friend Katie held me hostage in the bathroom of a rooftop bar in Los Angeles.
I wrote my last piece for Deeper Story, about love's tendency to show up right when the priest has come in to say last rites.
I told 500 college students about the darkest years of my life, and made an Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt joke that bombed so hard.
My big brother met his other sisters, and I wrestled with my own false notions of love being a finite resource.
I rejected the title of Daddy's Girl.
My friends fell in love, and so we started making room for boys at our table.
I traced my love affair with words back to it's origin.
I had the pleasure of kicking off AfterDark chapels for the '15-'16 school year by talking about just how terrible I am at change, and a few things I wish I would have known in college.
When asked, I said what hurt.
I had a melt down over my wildly impractical masters degree and lack of a life plan.
I wrote about what it feels like to grow up believing that your body is dangerous.
I celebrated my 10 year anniversary of being on anti-depressants.
Some idiot let me plan a week of educational programming called Gender, Faith, & Culture.
I decided to stop being offended when called an angry woman.
I honored the men who have consistently advocated for my voice and place within my faith community.
I wrote about Advent, because I am an evangelical-ish millenial blogger, & I'm pretty sure it's the law. (Also because I'm wearing longing like a terrible Christmas sweater these days.)
I kept putting one foot in front of the other, chipping away at my masters degree (halfway done!), going to work, writing and speaking here and there, and attempting to live a life of small faithfulness followed by small faithfulness. Because most of our days are lived in those margin moments, and shaped by the words spoken and choices made in them, aren't they? I am trying to lean into those with as much intention and delight as the ones with grander fanfare.
Mary Oliver's instructions for life read, "Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.”
So thank you, dear reader, for letting me tell about mine. I don't know how you stumbled across my little corner of the internet, but I sure am glad you did.
Let's do it again next year, yeah?