ÂÌñÒùÆÞ

It only takes a second to feel rotten about yourself. 

A woman I know has a habit of naming her years. Come January 1, she’ll choose a word for the year ahead—something she’d like to be true of the coming months, such as community or adventure or love. If I were to go back and name the past ten years of my life, most of them would share the same few words: Judgment. Guilt. Fear.

I moved to Madison, Wisconsin, from the western Chicago suburbs six weeks ago based on a strong sense of God’s leading. I didn’t get an angel or nine months of planning like Mary did—both of which would have been nice.