2021 was Pretty Darn Good

When we finally calm down, if we’re still alive, there God is — waiting for us.

Our year started out “pretty good” and is ending up in the “pretty darn good” category. As you may have heard, Joanne continues to stick with me, which once again nicely aligns with my hopes and dreams. Not that I’ve improved much. She’s decided to settle, obviously, which we’ve both found out is the secret to a long, happy, and comical marriage. We agree to eat what the other wants, let the other wander around in the middle of the night, watch TV shows that make us both giggle, call each other every couple of hours, and spend money only if we agree on it, are trapped into it, or hounded by people who can do us harm. We’re graduating from working hard into selling things we own. I’ve already got my cap and gown. I settled for a C+. Joanne is arguing over her total applied credits with several different bureaucratic agencies. She’ll eventually get an A. We’re both laughing more over stuff that used to start arguments. The trick is to fight one at a time. We wait until the other either forgets or gets tuckered out, which almost always ends with me wondering why I need to take a nap. I do win debates. I can tell because Joanne apologizes and holds me. Well, she also does that when I stare at her and wonder why God nudged her in my direction. We’ve always worried about our children, but they appear to be more worried about us now. “You sure you want to do that, Dad?” “Have you thought this through, Mom?” Well, no we aren’t sure, and we haven’t thought it through. I’m surprised they don’t know us better. God still waits until the last minute to straighten us out on things. Only recently, we’ve made the connection between “finding your keys in the last place that you look” and how God operates. Trusting God is like breathing, we’ve discovered. Don’t trust him and we hyperventilate and pass out. Worry is a hurried up way to die early. When we finally calm down, if we’re still alive, there he is waiting for us. St. Anthony has assigned an angel to help us find things. We’ve worn him out and at least two other of his rookie saint associates. Only angels have the patience of, well … angels. Not going to Church for two years was both weird and disturbing. I’ve found a tiny place to worship and Joanne’s returned to Our Lady of the Woods. We check out each other’s Masses and other liturgies. People have no idea what we’re doing, but I don’t know if the new normal will be like anything we used to do anyway. After a testy time between our children’s generation and ours, we’re back in working order. I blame the devil, IPA beer, awful copywriters, journolismaganda, and stinky cheese. Cheese has nothing to do with any of it, but getting mad at the other four doesn’t help. The greatest healers of anxiety rift have been our grandchildren and their parents and airplanes. Plus, both Joanne and my siblings are awesome people, and so lovely. This Christmas looks a little closer to the real deal, and we pray you see Jesus’ friends everywhere, enjoy the Holy Spirit’s whispers, and bow readily at our loving, incredible Father’s ongoing restoration of creation.