Still With Us: Hope for New BeginningsSýnishorn

“I’m waiting until the dust settles,” is a phrase I’ve used more times than I can count this year. It’s been a season of confusion in my personal life as I’ve moved, switched careers, and married my best friend. And on a grander scale, it has been a season of great unknown, change, and even turmoil for us all. To quote my favorite TV show, "it really hasn’t been anyone’s day, week, month or even your year. "

When I look at photos from New Year’s Eve, I see big eyes and hopeful faces that felt certain a year that sounded as cool as 2020 would be the culmination of every unfulfilled dream and wishful resolution. The future looked bright and clear. We would all finally make our goal weight, meet the one, write the book, get the promotion, and clean out that junk drawer we’ve been ignoring for the last five years. As the clock struck midnight, the glitter of hope clung to us like a kindergarten art project. 

But for most, 2020 has been a year of dust, not glitter. Dust comes from things being broken. Dust comes from things being built. Dust comes from things we’ve forgotten that we must revisit. Dust comes from stillness. 

The air is filled with it, and I find myself squinting and holding my breath. It has not been the year we hoped for, and certainly not the year we planned. Tickets canceled, decisions deferred, even my emotions feel paused because there is simply no telling what the future holds. Until the dust settles, I tell myself. Then I will be able to see my way through. 

I’ve been giving up hope on 2020 and wishing for a new year. But what if putting up the tree and waiting for the clock to strike midnight doesn’t bring the clarity I think it will? Tired of the dust as I am, I’m beginning to wonder if being unable to see is not just an inconvenience, but an opportunity. A chance to learn to use other senses. 

My husband has been flying planes since he was in high school. And as I’ve accompanied him on flights, I have learned this: so much of being able to fly relies on your ability to know where you are and where you are headed. 

Sounds simple enough, right? But it is one thing to fly on a clear day when you can spot other planes at a distance, and it is quite another to fly in the dark, your vision obscured by clouds, and only a few lighted dials to guide you. 

This second kind of flying requires many hours of additional training. You learn to rely, not on sight, but on your instruments to help keep you on course. He tells me that pilots practice this skill on perfectly clear days by wearing a hood that blocks their sight—only allowing them to see the dials but not out the window in front of them. That's terrifying, I told him. That’s the point, he said. 

Because if you can learn to not rely on sight alone, then you won’t be lost when it disappears. 

So much of life is like this, I’ve learned. And so much of faith as well. We don’t always have the privilege of using our eyes, and perhaps we are all going through some unwanted training right now. Will we panic? Or will we learn to use the right tools to guide us?

What is your compass, your unmoving North Star that reminds you that you’re headed in the right direction? For me, it is the person of Christ, a fixed point in an ever-changing world. It is these three guiding lights: faith, hope, and love. But when I feel myself longing for a clearer path in front of me, I have to ask myself: Am I pursuing my North Star? Am I using my guiding lights? Are those who are following me moving towards them or am I leading them elsewhere?

Maybe what seems like a toss-up of a year is actually an invitation to learn how to fly in the dark. And maybe, when the dust does settle, you’ll become a better pilot for it.