2010 is (about) looking up.

Outside the window, frost sparkles atop frozen grass blades of green. The sun is shining, deliberately teasing those who view it, for there is no warmth; just sun. What once were puddles in the driveway, have become expansive ice rinks for teams of hockey playing ants. I sip from my tea, and realize that not even ants were that dumb. Looking down inside the cup of tea, I almost expect to find traces of mind altering drug residue. Ants? Playing hockey in my driveway? Confident I am merely crazy, and not drugged, I shrug my shoulders, while sipping another drink. Wool lined slippers, with leather bottoms, keep my feet warm, and a cream, cable knit sweater keeps the rest of me cozy. It is Saturday morning, the day after Christmas and six days until the New Year. Six days, before the turning of a yet another page, of yet another chapter, in the chronicles of wet ink, that is a life.

Thinking, in a deliriously glass half full mode, the frost of the morning signifies the year past, while the full, golden glow, of winters' sun hails in hope. Not unlike a lighthouse, the sun doesn't promise warmth, nor can it decide your path, it is a tool of luminance to identify the shoreline. I conclude, those that choose not to see the sun, but focus on the frost, subject themselves to wander at sea; lost, pilot less.

I make my way back to the kitchen; it is humble with its' whites counters, and veneered cabinets. My tea, now cold, and almost empty, is in need of a refill. As I walk between the couch, and the half-wall that separates the living room from the kitchen, a nightstand displays my Bible. The black leather cover is dusty, its' pages still crisp and new. It has been months, maybe even years, since it had caught my attention. This day, a frosty, sunny metaphor of a day, though, it has thrown itself at me; demanded my attention, not to be ignored.

The cover finds itself in my hands, even though I don't remember picking it up. My cup, now replacing the Bible on the nightstand. The pages flip through my fingers, opening itself, surely not by my command or control. I find myself in Psalms, “The Lord is my light and salvation; whom shall I fear?” Re-reading the passage, admittedly more than once, I find it to be true; not only spiritually, but succinctly to the morning. Sun from above, frost below, suddenly, miraculously, it became clear.

This year, the New Year, will not smell of forgotten resolutions, lost promises, or searching faith. A simple 'look up, not down' principle will dawn 2010, because I know what frost looks like, and what it feels like, and where it doesn't lead. This is the year, I ask to bask in the glow of the light, seeking it, using it to search my shoreline; wherever it may lead.

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