Dear January

Dear January:

May I confess a secret?

I think I have a crush on you.

It's a bit of a shock, even to me. You are the deepest, darkest winter here in Minnesota. The sun rises late and sets early. Wind chill is measured by degrees below zero. The holidays are over and the decorations are gone and spring is so very far away. I used to groan at the mere mention of you.

But the last few years, I've caught flashes of your brilliance. Bright sunshine that makes the snow glitter. Morning sunrises that glisten like an opal. Frosty air that invigorates every cell in my body. The hushed stillness of a clean blanket of white.

But even more than the quiet beauty of winter, you offer a fresh start, free for the taking. I love that you begin a new year. Suddenly, nothing is sacred, and hope blossoms anew. Goals are made, even audacious ones, and I face the future with resolve. Change is possible. Anything can happen when the slate is clean. The next chapter starts here. "He makes all things new."

The best part, January, is that it's all somehow unexpected, like no one believes you can compete with the drama of December. Thing is, you don't even try. Your gift is more substance, less show. You are reality. Like the gift of a good chef's knife, you are both prized and practical. You make even the routine of everyday a little radical.

So I'm glad to see you. Welcome back. If you catch me smiling a little when the afternoon sun shines gold in the playroom, or when I see the stars shimmer at me from an inky night sky, or when I try a new recipe or a new routine or a new attitude because I feel your hope pulsating in my soul. Well. Just know. Between you and me.

It's love.