History & Hope at the Year’s End

If you knew me, you’d know — New Year’s and I don’t exactly get along. Which means resolutions and I certainly don’t see eye to eyes.

I know, I know. This is just one more area in which I’m also in the minority.

I’ve never:

👉 Watched any of the countdowns.
👉 Felt the energy or excitement of parades or fireworks.
👉 Made the prerequisite lists.

No, actually, that last one’s not right. I used to do lists…and then watched them fizzle out by February — just about every one left unticked.

No thanks. I don’t need to start the year off disappointed and stressed.

(I’m pretty sure I’m not alone in list failure.)

So why do we still make them?

Maybe because the turning of a year gives us a little pause between what was and what might be, a chance to look back, take a deep breath, and decide what matters next.

Maybe for most it’s less about guilt or failure and more about hope.

So let’s take a friendly stroll through the past of resolutions: where they began, how they shifted, and why they still matter.

Then we’ll end—not with you making a cumbersome list, but with a simple, gentle challenge that fits me (and maybe you) far better, leaving room for a little grace.

Before goal apps and gym passes, “resolutions” were solemn promises made in community.

People greeted the new year with vows meant to restore harmony — to make right what had drifted off-center.

In the ancient world, new-year rituals often marked turning the soil and turning the page.

Farmers brought their first harvests, neighbors returned borrowed things, and communities renewed their sense of responsibility.

The new year wasn’t about self-improvement; it was about belonging — choosing faithfulness to one another.

That spirit still speaks. A fresh year is less about polishing ourselves and more about repairing the threads that hold us together.

As calendars shifted, so did the symbolism.

The beginning of January has long been pictured as a doorway — one face glancing back with memory, the other face looking forward with hope.

I like this image: We honor what came before, then step through the doorway on purpose.

That rhythm — remember, then re-aim — might be the most humane form of “resolution” we have. No grand pronouncements, just quiet alignment.

Maybe the point isn’t to become someone new on January 1, but to become a little truer to who we already are.

Today, our lists tend to be private and practical.

We promise to read more, spend less, call home, be kinder to our bodies and our neighbors.

Some of those promises stick; many don’t — not because we’re weak, but because life is busy and change needs room.

What if we traded the big yearly overhaul for small, meaningful rituals?

A single choice we can keep repeating — steady, gentle, doable. The kind of promise that leaves oxygen in the room.

That’s the kind of “resolution” I can live with — not a burden, but a rhythm.

Here’s my confession: I don’t make resolutions. But I do love traditions that keep me close to stories.

So this year, I’m inviting you to try something wonderfully small with me.

Instead of a long list for January, pick one literary observance to celebrate each month — tiny, joyful, and book-ish.

Here’s how it works:

And here’s why it works:

By next New Year’s Eve, you’ll have twelve small celebrations behind you — twelve bookmarks in a year that wasn’t about pressure, but presence.