In early 1992, my husband and I began construction on a new home.  We’d put our home on the market, sold it within a week, and given every penny we had to a “preferred” builder in the new neighborhood we’d chosen as a deposit on the new place.

Right around the time the roof went on the house, we received word that our builder was filing for bankruptcy.  Construction on our home was halted.  Our choices were to walk away and lose our money or wait for three months, buy our home on the courthouse steps, then hire another builder to finish it.

We waited the three months and purchased the forlorn-looking home in progress. Thankfully, my husband was able to talk the bank into allowing him to assume the builder’s construction loan, but we soon found out that the builder had spent a good deal of our loan money on other projects, leaving us with just enough money to complete the home if we were frugal.  But there was not enough money to hire a contractor.  All of a sudden, my husband, a man who had to repeat to himself “lefty loosey righty tightey” just to change a lightbulb, became our builder.

Down the street, a guy named Ruben was building a million-dollar home for a former pro golfer.  Ruben was a former acquaintance of my parents and was familiar with their ministry.  He took pity on us and began sending his sub contractors over to work on our house at his negotiated prices.  And every few days, his brother and business partner, Joel, would stop by to check on our progress.

One day, Joel and my husband were walking through the house, and Joel said, “You know, if you would take the time to screw these floors down, you’ll never have a creaky floor.”

My husband drove straight to Home Depot and bought himself a power drill and a huge box of screws.  He went back to the house and began screwing down the floors.

Joel showed up a couple of hours later to check on him.  He walked into the house, took one look at my husband and at the floor, and burst out laughing.  He motioned for Darren to follow him downstairs to the basement, and then pointed up.  Hundreds of screws were sticking through the particle boards that made up the floors.  Joel had failed to explain that the boards needed to be screwed into the floor joists.   My husband had screwed those floors into thin air.

I realize this is an opportunity to joke about my husband’s wayward screwing, to call it an early omen of his future cheating, and to wonder how I failed to notice that ominous warning.

But that’s not what I take from this story.  I see it as more of a lesson on how we fixate on securing our futures only to find out that it’s an exercise in futility.   We think our security resides in relationships or investment accounts or even houses, finding out when it’s too late that we’ve just been screwing our floors to nothing.

The whole search for certainty, in fact, is like those errant screws.  We can only imagine security in terms of what we already know or have, and that means living in the past.  The answer, then, is to not be a prisoner of the past but to be willing to live in the present.

So although I don’t do New Year’s resolutions, I want to live this next year in the moment, worried neither about what’s already happened or what might happen.

It reminds me of a story my friend Donna told me.  Her granddaughter, who was visiting from California, insisted on an early morning swim in Donna’s pool.  Little Katie, who’s seven, jumped into the chilly water, but Donna sat on the edge, hoping she wouldn’t have to get in.  But Katie was having none of it.   After much cajoling, Donna stuck a toe in, then eased down to sit on the top stair.

Katie persisted in trying to get Donna into the water.  Finally, in frustration, she said to her grandmother, “LaLa, I came here to have fun!”

I’m fairly certain I’m not here to spend my life being worried.  And I’m completely sure I’m not here to be miserable.  It feels right, this idea that I’m here to enjoy my life and to be happy.  I came here to have fun, and in 2012, I’m jumping in.