When I was a kid, mostly junior high-ish, every girl I knew kept these calendars. They were these cheap little things about the size of a checkbook that you could pick up just about anywhere for a dollar or two. Beneath the shiny plastic cover would be a photo of cute little teddy bears or dolphins or cuddly kittens. Inside, each month had a calendar that spread two pages and included an “inspirational” quote of some kind.

We wrote down everything in those little books. Practically every day was a blob of messy blue ink from the cheap pens we smuggled into school (pencils were the required writing utensil; pens were frowned upon). Back then every event seemed to be filled with such promise. And so were we. Everything that happened was possibly the beginning of something important. Whether it be the first time we had lunch with a new girlfriend or the first time a certain boy spoke to us in the hall. Or maybe it was our first softball practice with the varsity team. It didn’t matter what it was, it was all significant. We would record every event, sometimes in shorthand (in case the parentals happened to get their hands on them), because we just knew that someday we’d want to be able to look back and remember that was the day. Right there. That’s where it all started.

I don’t know exactly when I stopped recording everything like that. But I wish I still did it. I wish I could look at something that happened this morning and actually believe for the ten seconds it would take to write it down that it could be the beginning of something great. But the sad thing is that I just can’t make myself do it. I’ve seen the world’s evil face and I know what tomorrow has to offer. Or maybe I’ve just gotten so bogged down in the way I think things are that I’m failing to see potential all around me.

Either way, I realize now how much happiness is tied to hope. And faith. And how much I need to find some of both.