Counting the Fruit
Photo by Lauren Mitchell Photography, 2025
I read somewhere that our brains are hardwired to remember the bad. It's our mind's way of fostering survival: if we remember where danger lurked in the past, we'll be (at least in theory) less likely to return to it. That's why I'm more cautious at the intersection where I almost crashed the car last month. It's also why I still remember how the boy I liked in fifth grade chuckled as he rejected me. The brain remembers the bad.
When I look back on 2025, my mind does what it was built to do: it turns the spotlight on everything that went wrong. I recall the assault, the marriage struggles, the middle school weariness, the political division. I remember every moment I almost gave up and checked out. Every moment I wanted to choose apathy. I could have—and typically would have—ended up there.
But God.
He really does bring life out of dead things, doesn't He? Not just once, at the moment of justification, but year after year, day after day, second after second. He fights for me. He fights for you. In a million ways we'll never see or fully comprehend, our King is forever fighting for His children.
And I want to fight to remember that.
I want to remember every moment He lit a lantern in my darkness or sprouted tiny green leaves from my soul’s dry ground. Instead of counting every withered branch on the tree of 2025, I want to count the fruit. Jesus, help me count the fruit.
———
Friend and Savior, I’m so grateful that I get to chat with Crosby about You every morning. We’re learning to wrestle with hard questions and trust You in the mystery, growing increasingly comfortable with being uncomfortable… with not knowing every answer and lifting our gaze to the One who does. Thanks for the ways You softly and tenderly pursue all of my kiddos. When I slow down enough to notice, I see glimpses of You in them, clear as day. I remember and celebrate those moments now.
I’m grateful for fifteen years of a messy, imperfect, hard marriage. For therapy that stretches us in miraculous ways. I’m grateful that I didn’t know then what I know now (I have some qualms with that song), because every tear, loss, and disagreement was a brick laid on the road of our sanctification. Thank You that our worship is hard-fought. Thank You that, somehow, our hearts are still soft.
Father, I’m thankful for every road trip, concert, puzzle, and movie night I shared with friends this year. Finally, I have a small number of people who truly see me and get me. I’ve wanted that my whole life, and I really do believe I have it now. I’m grateful for every moment You led me to dance wildly, sing loudly, and laugh achingly. Thank You for the gift of watching my pal’s baby come into the world.
(I really got to live this year, didn’t I, Lord?
How did that happen?
How did the grief not swallow me whole?)
Most importantly, I’m thankful that You drew closer to me when I asked hard questions or felt anger toward You. You’re a God who truly understands what it means to be human—who sympathizes with our every weakness. I’m grateful that Jesus came to earth with one mission in mind—to nail our sins to the cross—yet He asked for the cup to pass from Him. That truth reminds me I’m allowed to be scared and still obey You. My fear does not nullify my faith. Both things can be true. Both things can be worship.
As we enter a new year full of big, stretching adventures, I’m infinitely grateful that You go before us. Thank You that the God who pursues and sustains me every day is the same God pursuing and sustaining my kids, my husband, my community, Your Church, this country, and the world we temporarily call home.
And goodness gracious—thank You that this earth is not our final dwelling place. I rejoice knowing that the way things are is not the way they will always be. You are doing a new thing, Father. You are making a way in the wilderness. You are winding rivers through the desert. So train my brain to hope, Lord—not in everything working out, not in a life free from pain—but in Immanuel, God With Us. In the One who still rolls stones away. Even here. Even now.
Just as Christ did after He cried out to You, God, I give You all of me—and all that is to come—shakily declaring, “Not my will, but Yours, be done.”
And so it continues… lots and lots of types of days. 2026. Let’s go. 🥂
