There’s a certain time of day, time of year, and type of weather that reminds me of that morning. January 1, 2015. Do you have moments like that, where the right alignment of factors and feelings takes you back to a very specific place?
On that morning, after a very cold but quite lovely New Year’s Eve strolling around the port of Marseille, France—tasting Moroccan baklava, sipping Amorino hot chocolate, eating piping hot lamb tagine—we rose to a new year, a bright blue sky, and the warmth of the Mediterranean sun. After breakfast in our hotel we sat in lounge chairs outside, looking out over the old port, and basked in the sun. I remember looking at Kira—a smile of sun-bathed peace on her face, all four limbs sprawled out to fully absorb every ray she could—and feeling a joy so profound it bordered on sadness. It was one of those sublime, fleeting glimpses of eternal Sabbath. A rare glimpse of the perpetual shalom to come—where gratitude is the default rather than discontentment, and where burdens of every sort feel galaxies away.
The rest of that day followed suit. We took a boat cruise to hike on the nearby calanques—ruggedly beautiful islands surrounded by pristine turquoise water. We walked up to the Notre Dame de la Garde to watch the sun set over the old port. We finished the day with dinner at our hotel's Michelin starred restaurant, reflecting on the beauty we had already seen on our trip (Barcelona for a few days) and what we were planning to see in the remainder of our time exploring Provence and the Côte d’Azur. We were newly married, and the dawn of 2015 was as bright as the blue sky that crisp winter morning.
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Five years later, on January 1, 2020, we woke up in another beautiful part of the world: New Zealand. It was summer in Auckland then; morning sun arrived earlier. We probably woke at 6am-ish, not only because of the early light but also because we had a toddler in tow. Kira was pregnant with Ira and 1-year-old Chet was sleeping in our hotel’s pack-n-play. We went on a walk that morning in an Auckland park that was wildly tropical and exotic to our American senses. We had dinner at a fun rotisserie chicken restaurant in the Ponsonby neighborhood, followed by ice cream at Duck Island. Chet was newly walking and a handful to chase around town. Hopping in and out of Ubers with a car seat was stressful to say the least. Needless to say, New Year’s Day last year was less luxuriant and serene as it was in Marseille, five years earlier. But it was no less hopeful. The promise of 2020 was palpable for our family of three, soon to be four.
Little did we know how 2020 would take a turn, just a few months later. Yet thinking back to those days in New Zealand—adventures in Auckland and then in the stunning South Island (Christchurch, Franz Josef Glacier, Queenstown, Milford Sound)—brings me much joy. When I look at pictures from that trip, and remember the sights and sounds of that stunning place, I’m reminded—as I am thinking back to Marseille on New Year's Day 2015—of those rare, transcendent moments of carefree joy and hope.
I experience something similar when I watch this video of Hillsong United performing “Good Grace” at Passion 2020. It’s Chet’s favorite YouTube video and he requests it multiple times a day (he calls it the “hot chicken song” for reasons I won’t get into here... long story). The song hits its climax as the clock winds down on 2019 and turns to 2020, and fireworks light up the concert arena and surrounding sky. Chet’s eyes always gleam when he watches this part. To be honest, so do mine. There’s something majestic, almost heavenly, about watching these thousands of young people in a state of such euphoric, celebratory worship. Watching it now is surreal: such a big, mask-free crowd of revelers enjoying a vibrant social gathering. And not so long ago. We watch it to remember, I think, and to anticipate. A time capsule from the world before. And the world to come.
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This New Year’s Day we’ll be at home, hunkered down, in quarantine having just flown home from Christmas in Kansas City. With the pandemic surging in California, friends who have lost loved ones to the virus, and all plans painfully provisional for 2021, it’ll be a much more tempered January 1 than others we’ve enjoyed. No cruises to the calanques on the French Riviera. No strolls through Auckland parks. We’ll probably do more of what we’ve done since March: stay at home, go on a neighborhood walk, cook something tasty, notice more of the sounds and smells and sights right in front of us. We’ll probably also shed cathartic tears as we exhale and take stock of the stress, weight, and tension of these last 10 months.
And yet it will be glorious. This is the blessing of this cursed year. Our expectations and hopes have been shaken loose from what is shakeable, and re-directed to what is secure. Our New Year’s Day optimism won’t be tied to our anticipation of what’s coming in 2021—in part because we haven’t the slightest inkling what that will be. Our optimism will rather be bound up within the God of hope, who fills us “with all joy and peace” (Romans 15:13).
Our hopes are not in the warmth of the Marseille sun—which we may never experience again—but in the eternal warmth of the “no more night” future that awaits (Rev. 22:5). Our optimism resides not in our ability to attend massive concerts, festivals, or bustling parties again soon (here’s hoping though), but rather in the infinitely more transcendent worship festival that will be our eternal home.
Until then, we’ll take the transcendent glimpses when they come, with gladness and gratitude: the warmth of a winter sun, the deep rest of a vacation, the profound joy of a Saturday morning walk with two boys below in a stroller and the birds above singing. Each a gift, each a glimpse of the unending newness to come.