Twice in the past few days I've found myself trying to put into words what this past year has meant to me. I remember in June last year declaring to myself and everyone else, "this is the year of healing." And proceeding to spend the next eight months mourning the loss of a job, experiencing painful anxiety over a temp job and a professional search. But I'm on the other side of it, and the year is almost up, and I think about the mornings that have been spent in silence, with a reading and a candle. And I think of a talk I had with Marcie about the grittiness of Christianity. About how it's not about holding oneself pure and moral, but it's jumping right into the messiness of life. I think you throw yourself into it, and deal your love out to everyone you meet, and the truth is like the children's song, you give your love away and end up having more. I'm still learning how to do this. I spend a morning a week with women in jail, and I leave them feeling like I've been in prayer, when all we did was make jewelry and talk about how much time everyone has left and maybe complain about men. So, yeah, it is the year of healing. And every time I grow up a little (at 41!), I realize how far behind I am, wisdom-wise. And lest I get too smug about all the good things, I read the paper, think about what I'm not doing (I've been given so much), and quiet down to think of the road ahead.