On August 18, 2013, I suddenly felt dizzy. It had been a nice Sunday afternoon. I remember what I was wearing: a mauve colored peasant blouse and white pedal pusher pants. And I remember that the sun was shining through the dining room windows and my cats were curled up on the couch. It had been a good day, because I had spent the day in prayer. And I fasted for eight hours that day. Only eight hours. I had fasted several times before, for more than 24 hours on a few occasions, and never had a problem. This day was different.
I'll be honest: I'm not a big new year's resolution girl. I find the idea of making a list of commitments for an entire year daunting. Perfectionist that I am, new year's resolutions feel like an invitation to fail and feel guilty, all year long. (I know, I'm kind of dramatic. I'm working on it.)