So far, the baby new year has not been as darling as hoped, more like the love child of Ann Coulter and Idi Amin, with colic and a blistering diaper rash. If you prefer to stick with the vehicle metaphor, so far it's been like a souped-up El Camino driven by a paranoid meth addict. It's already veered out of control and taken out a couple of innocent bystanders.
I really do hope, when we get to heaven, that there's an orientation session where all these things will be explained: why the wicked prosper, and good, loving people are cut down in their prime. Sometimes, in flashes, I think I understand, from an intellectual standpoint--but it still makes me want to throw up. I try to remember my five-word New Year's resolution: "Wait. More will be revealed." But waiting does not come easy to me. I want answers, and restitution for those who have lost things that cannot be compensated for.
I know I am a child of God, but not one of the docile ones that sits quietly at Jesus' knee in the pictures. I'm the foot-stamping toddler throwing a tantrum right outside the frame. My vocabulary is equal parts "NO!" and "WHY?" I believe with all my heart that God loves me, but I also believe He is a little relieved when I fall asleep and finally shut up for the day.
When my own kids were toddlers, they were by turns frustrating and frustrated. The only saving grace was that I knew, as they matured, they would understand and master the things that infuriated their baby selves. I hope the same is true for me. I hope someday this world makes more sense, is more orderly and less of a howling wilderness. I hope I develop more patience, and kindness, and a better attitude. I hope I grow up, and mellow.
And I really hope this squalling, sputtering, shit-spewing baby of a new year does, too.