I pull and the tack falls out of the corkboard. The curled piece of paper floats down onto my desk, and I pull it closer to examine the faded writing. Two hundred and thirty-five days ago I had cheerfully penned each of the lines with a different color marker.

Seven goals. That’s all I had for 2018, unlike the large, pages full of goals from previous years. The list had come after weeks of praying about what twenty-eighteen was going to look like and coming up with a blank. I’d felt like God was impressing upon me the importance of not having too many goals and instead, learning to go with the flow, and so that’s what I did.

My goals seemed simple enough when I wrote them. There was no reason why I shouldn’t be able to accomplish them.

But back in December life was vastly different then it is today. In fact, it feels like a whole different era. Nowadays I rush through life doing and going and accomplishing, but not the things I would have predicted if you would have asked me as I was writing my list.

Today I’m exceedingly thankful. Thankful for the goals I did write, and even more thankful for the goals I didn’t write.