I used to think that my calling—my “ministry”—would somehow involve writing. I dreamed that I would pen a book and it would be a best-seller and people would read my words and my story and be moved. That my eloquent sentences would point people to God. I wanted to make an impact and create a legacy that would outlast me. I wanted to write stories that would outlive me. Well, clearly that has not happened. But, the truth is, I do find myself in “ministry”—it just doesn’t look the way I thought it would.

What if the empty December calendar was actually a gift—a blank canvas of sorts—instead of one more in a long string of losses at the hands of 2020?