God closed a door today before I had a chance to approach its threshold.

I was unsure if it was right for me, this big, beautiful door–but it’s a door I desperately wanted to pass through. It stood on a hill, wide open, and beyond it I saw a land flowing with milk and honey, freckled with glimpses of what I believed were meaning, purpose, solution. I had prayed for weeks, staring up at it from my valley below, wrestling with whether or not I should lug one heavy foot in front of the other to climb up to its threshold. Hope looked bright beyond the door. I wondered if my eyesight needed to be checked. I’d prayed that God would close this door that stood so invitingly before me if what I believed to be beautiful and full of meaning turned out to be a mirage of the heart.

Weeks of staring up at this door from my valley, and today, the door gently closed, simultaneously snuffing out the flickering hope of my daydream, and, giving me some space to breathe again.

This closure is a blessing. It’s what I’d asked for. It’s one less thing to worry and stress over, one less decision to make, one less thing on my table. He closed the door for me, an act dripping with gentle mercy and tender love.

And yet, it’s still so hard.

Letting go of dreams will forever be hard. And in this moment of childlike disappointment, looking out into the gray rainy sky through this coffee shop window, I’m resolving. To learn how to dream better dreams. Dreams that God would never have me let go.

I have a love/hate relationship with January. Mostly love, but there is a little hate.

And it stems from my sin.

Let’s start with the good stuff: new beginnings. Oh, how I love a new beginning. Who can resist its fresh, virgin white pages? No mistakes to make up for. No failures to wear in shame. Nothing but a clean, empty space to fill up with a new set of dreams.

The hope of spring is another good one. The electric madness of the holidays over and the hope of spring’s coming blossoms, warmth, gentler days. It’s sweet.

The biggest qualm I have with January, though, is the expectation it holds to form resolutions. January takes me by the hand to a place of remembering my fear of being left behind while everyone else is doing, accomplishing, gaining, growing, contributing. It is on this cliff of temptation that my sin blows through on a blistering breeze. I look over the cliff into the valley–the world around me–and compare myself to what I see. And my sin blows all around me, whispering into my ear all the things I need to do this year to make sure my life is measuring up to the rest of the world, and re-arranging the picture in my mind of what it means to live a “significant life.”

Those whispers get to me. Every cell in my body yearns to write list after list of All The Things I want to accomplish this year and a detailed game plan for each one. All of these ideas that swim in my head at the start of each year, including the small and seemingly innocent ones, when dissected all the way down to its core are really for one person’s glory: me.

My flesh is so frail in January.

I think of the rich young ruler described in Matthew 19. The account paints a picture of a man who sought to live a righteous life and earnestly believed himself to be righteous. When he approaches Jesus to ask, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?,” I think he asked it in both earnestness and confidence. He probably thought he was a shoo-in. My heart aches to picture his response to Jesus’ answer–leave it all behind, and follow me–as he turns his back sadly on Jesus, and walks away. This was a man who placed more value in his earthy accomplishments and things, than a personal invitation from God himself to trash it all and intimately abide with him instead.

What a tragedy.

For someone like me, it’s good to remember the rich young ruler this time of year, when I’m so tempted to treasure the very things I should be throwing away. This man’s account gently reminds me that the things I do are neither my greatest treasure nor the basis of my identity; rather, it is what Christ has done. How is it even possible to feel left behind on January’s terrain when Christ pursued me to the cross and remains with me forever?

As I ran my hell-bound race, indifferent to the cost
You looked upon my helpless state and led me to the cross
And I beheld your love displayed, you suffered in my place
And bore the wrath reserved for me; now all I know is grace

Hallelujah! All I have is Christ
Hallelujah! Jesus is my life

And Lord, I would be yours alone to live so all might see
The strength to follow your command could never come from me
Oh Father, use this ransomed life in any way you choose
And let my song forever be my only boast is you

Oh January, I long to love you fully! May the Lord use the remainder of your days to remind me that he makes all things new. Lord, let me pursue you with reckless abandon; renew my heart each day that the song of my ransomed life forever be: my only boast is you.