On New Year’s Eve, resolve this–know your name

This essay was first published on The Daily BS on December 28, 2024.

What a year it’s been. With a fractious election, a red tidal wave, and now, Christmas in the rearview mirror, Americans are gearing up for the next great tradition—the ball drop accompanied by the annual resolutions.

Unfortunately, I know how this goes. Many eager resolvers will find their brand-new resolutions dissolving like so much tissue paper in a spring rain. This can happen anywhere from two to seven days after the last sanitation worker has left Times Square, hauling the confetti away.

As a former resolver, this is familiar ground to me. My good intentions evaporate in the heat and thunder of daily life, away from the holiday high, and there come the old, unwelcome companions:  discouragement and defeat.

Standing in my kitchen this week, Christmas chaos all around, I mused aloud about the upcoming show and this essay. That’s when my husband piped up from his recliner. “Talk about new beginnings,” he said.

“Talk about second chances.” This, from the resident teenager who was pillaging the village pantry.

New year. New beginnings. Second chances.

“Resolution,” the dictionary says, “is the state or quality of being resolute; firm determination; a firm decision to do something; a course of action determined or decided upon.”

I like that. In and of themselves, our resolutions are not the problem. It is good to set goals, to chart courses for where we want to go and who we want to be. Aim for nothing, and you’ll hit it every time.

There is something symbolic and hopeful about the advent of a new year. In our office, we have several calendars that hang on the walls, each month illustrated by a lovely painting. To see the next month, we must physically turn the page, flipping it up to hide the old and reveal the new. When January comes, we hang an entirely fresh calendar, unmarked by last year’s events.

Yes, there is something about an unmarked page, a fresh beginning that calls the heart to hope.

On the cusp of the new year, how can we navigate the coming months, knowing that we will, at times, fail? What tools can we use? What truths can we fortify ourselves with that are strong enough to sustain our weight? In other words, how can we recover, even if we stumble and fall, and finish strong this coming year?

In my own life, I’ve found that it’s what I believe that makes all the difference. There is a real sense in which our beliefs can name us. For example, if I believe that failing makes me a failure, it opens the door to encroaching defeat with tendrils of despair. Hope cannot last long in this place, and there goes the motivation to keep trying.

Carrying names that don’t fit us is like trying to walk in shoes that don’t fit. It slows us down and hurts our feet. It keeps us from running fast and free, and eventually the pain will affect the whole body.

Worthless. Weak. Too Much. Not Enough. These are just a few of the names that are hissed into our ears by a serpent, and for too long now, we have listened. What we need, then, is a new name.

Loved.

That is our true name. Bestowed long ago by our creator, it is the truest thing about us. Spoken by the one who cannot lie, there is nothing we can do to change it. We cannot be more or do more, be less or do less. We cannot alter ourselves in any way that will ever change his mind. All other voices that dare to say differently must be wholly and roundly rejected.

How do I know this is true? I know it because of the love I have for my children. There is not one thing my sons can do; there is nothing they can stop doing. There is no way to add or subtract from my love, for I love them without conditions. When one son took us to hell and back, my love was put to the test. It held strong and firm. Nay, it grew, for the author of love himself filled me.

I saw it clearly one day. If I as an imperfect human parent could so love and accept my own sons, then it was but a dim reflection of the perfect parent and his extravagant, unconditional, never-failing love for me.

Here is what such love taught me:  it is not about getting it right. In the shelter of real love, it is safe for me to fail and then to try again. I am not on my own to figure things out, for love is there to catch me. He will instruct me and give me a helping hand.

Just as children learn to walk and talk, to feed themselves, or tie a shoe, all of it takes practice. They are not failures for their failed attempts. Our love picks them up, walks alongside, repeats the words, and ties the shoe. And little by little, they get it.

This is you, and this is me. If we are to resolve anything, let it be this—to know our true name, which is Loved.

If we have dropped things, missed things, or broken things in the old year, we can start over. We can try again. As long as we’re alive, there is hope, and there are new beginnings. Happy New Year to you!

All for love,

America’s small, caffeinated mom