A “Word of the Year” is intended to be a kind guide that walks along side of us during the year, not a harsh master that dictates a set of “to-do’s” (God knows we don’t need any more of those voices in our heads). It’s a friend that accompanies us during our journey. (The Dolly Mama)
When I was a young girl, I had the New Year’s resolution every year of reading through the Bible. On January 1, I would read 40 chapters of the book of Genesis and then by January 8, I would be on Genesis chapter 43. I’ve made that same resolution about 20 more times at points in my life and guess what, I have never read through the whole Bible no matter what I’ve tried. It’s been the same for me with exercise plans, diets, organizational goals, etc.
You know what I mean.
You feel the same pain.
Bottom line: resolutions rarely, if ever, work.
On the flip side, I’m all about HOPE. I love a fresh start. A new day. A new week. A new month. And especially a NEW YEAR. Hope “rocks my socks.”
Thank God He gives me a fresh start every morning, even every moment. I don’t know what I would do without the place where I can begin again, take a first step toward change, growth and healing, and then come to that same redemptive position again and again. HOPE.
HOPE, my first Word of the Year (hereafter known as WOTY) is the main reason why I opted to throw away all New Year’s resolutions and choose a WOTY. I need HOPE.
A word of the year encompasses HOPE. It’s an inner, gracious guide that allows room for us to change and grow. Resolutions are harsh external masters that heap shame on us when we “fail” to keep them.
Here’s why:
A resolution concentrates on “DOING.” A WOTY values “BEING.”
A resolution instructs. A WOTY inspires.
A resolution is mandatory (“work out three days a week”). A WOTY allows for room to go at your own pace (taking the next baby step).
A resolution is limited in possibility (“lose 10 pounds”). A WOTY is expansive and limitless.
A resolution can be “broken.” A WOTY cannot (it is a gentle friend).
If you’ve never done this, it’s a lot of fun. I know people who spend an hour (me) and some who spend a weekend (my husband).
It’s not a race. It doesn’t matter when. But it might matter IF.
It might seem overwhelming. It’s not. It’s just fun. Give yourself the treat.
Helpful reminders:
Concentrate on who you want to BE(come) this year, not what you want to get done.
Cup your ear to your hopes and dreams. Be mindful not to listen to your doubts and fears.
Be true to yourself. You want your word to represent your unique needs and desires.
Remind yourself that it doesn’t have to be perfect. This isn’t traditional goal-setting. This is grace-filled friendship-making. There is plenty of room to change your mind.
It’s intended to be a kind guide that walks along side of you during the year, not a harsh master that dictates a set of “to-do’s” (God knows we don’t need any more of those voices in our heads…I call that “shoulding” all over yourself). It’s a friend that accompanies you during your journey.
Simple steps:
Ask yourself a simple question: What do you need? Many times, we concentrate on improving ourselves instead of being kind to ourselves. This is a huge starting place. Don’t skip this step. Write down all the random things that come to your mind.
The next question can be (after you haven’t skipped the first one) who do you want to be(come)? Write down a few of the most important things that jump into your head.
Make a list of words that come to mind. Write as many as you want. It can be a noun, verb or adjective. If you need help, click on this printable alphabetical list I put together for you for some ideas. (Word of the Year Ideas)
Cross out the words that don’t work for you. Narrow your list down to at the most 10 words.
Check out the definition of each of the words, its origin, synonyms and antonyms. You might just be surprised at what you find out!
Give yourself some time to process the list. Allow yourself to “try each one on for size.”
Take a deep breath and choose your word. Take a few minutes to write your thoughts about how you hope it might play out in different areas of your life and relationships.
Write your word down on something and post it on your mirror, your car, your computer, wherever you will see it every day. I found a picture and put it as the background of my computer (it will feel weird to change it out). Look at it each morning and remind yourself about this friend who is with you today.
Give yourself permission to change your mind. If you want to, take the time to reflect and re-evaluate your word at any point in the year.
An Update From Yours Truly:
My WOTY for 2020 was “Hygge.” I don’t want to give up this friend. I love her. She’s been a kind, yet forceful voice in my life, the best of the best. I have a long way to go in my friendship with “Hygge.” She is “the feeling of coziness and well-being.”
The good news is that just because I make a new friend does not mean I have to give up my old one. “Hygge” can come along with me into 2021 and who knows, maybe my new word will stand hand-in-hand with her. When I think about all my WOTYs since I’ve started, it makes for one wonderful Dolly Mama posse (HOPE, BECOME, DEPTH, TEND, SHALOM and HYGGE). That makes me super happy.
Now, that I’ve welcomed them all, I would like to invite another new friend into my life for 2021: my Word of the Year is BREATHE!
Breathe.
After 2020, my muscles are tight, my brain is fried from all the decisions, my adrenaline is overused, my body is drained and my soul is plain-old exhausted from clinging to HOPE in the middle of all the heartache.
Breathe.
This “just-the-friend-I-need-right-now” WOTY will give me the courage to do this…
PHYSICALLY. Shoulders down. Lungs open. Slow, long and deep. Often.
EMOTIONALLY. Let the good in. Get the toxic out. Good boundaries. Open heart.
MENTALLY. Take one step at a time. Like a snail. Gracious. Steady. Intentional.
SPIRITUALLY.
Breathe.
INHALE the grace of God.
Breathe.
EXHALE the shame I heap on myself.
Breathe.
INHALE the peace of God.
Breathe.
EXHALE the fear that threatens to overwhelm me.
Breathe.
INHALE the love of God.
Breathe.
EXHALE all that tells me otherwise.
Breathe.
Back to You:
Consider joining me on this journey to find out what word can come along side you and be your gentle and kind friend throughout this new year that we are embarking on. When you do, please please send me a note letting me know what your word is or post it in the comments on social media. I love to remind you every so often throughout the year about your new-found friend.
Words said to me over and over again with every single contraction I had as I labored with each of my four kids.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
Long. Slow. Deep.
Breathe.
Words I say to myself whenever my heart starts to race, my palms get sweaty and my brain is off to the races, filled with anxiety and dread.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
Long. Slow. Deep.
Breathe.
Words the Tender Lover of my soul speaks to me when the heartache both within and around me feels unbearable.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
Long. Slow. Deep.
Breathe.
Words that I imagine were spoken to Mary by the women in her caravan coaxing her through the laboring pushes and birth of Jesus and the comfort and joy that prevailed in the afterbirth.
It’s past midnight.
Someone I love was in much pain earlier.
Most days, I would push it aside and go to sleep.
Not tonight.
I’m sitting at my table just breathing.
In and out.
Breathing in her pain. Long. Slow. Deep.
INHALE.
Holding my breath for just a few seconds as I hold her before the God who is with us in the middle of our pain, our heartache.
Breathing out the love of God to her. Long. Slow. Deep.
EXHALE.
I’m not in the physical room with this one I love. I can’t be right now.
I can’t take away her pain.
I can’t make it magically all better.
But I can breathe for her.
I can breathe with her.
Long. Slow. Deep.
In the story of creation, God took the dust, the dirt, the ground and breathed life into it. His powerful, beautiful, love-filled life.
What sprang forth in all its beauty was us. You and me.
We were glorious. We were sacred.
But we were also fragile.
But God didn’t and doesn’t stop there. He didn’t and doesn’t create us and then leave us alone.
We are still glorious. We are still sacred.
And we are still fragile.
We need Him, His breath of life, every single day.
In our pain. In our fear. In our sadness. Even in our joy.
We need His powerful, beautiful, love-filled life.
That’s why I breathe.
Long. Slow. Deep.
For those I love.
For myself.
Often for those I don’t even really know, but can love because they are glorious, sacred and fragile just like me.
Each of us takes about 20,000 breaths per day.
20,000 chances to inhale our individual and collective suffering.
20,000 chances to hold each other and bring each other to the One who holds us in the palm of His hand and in the recesses of His heart.
20,000 chances to exhale His unending and unfailing love to one another.
But most of our breaths are rushed, fast, and shallow.
We move at a pace that requires this. Rushed. Fast. Shallow.
It’s no wonder we miss out on the powerful, beautiful, love-filled life that God has to offer us and we have to offer each other.
So tonight, at this dark and quiet hour, I don’t want to miss out. I want to be present. I want to soak in the power, the beauty and the love that is ready at the waiting.
I had to set my alarm for the first time in nine months.
I left my home in the cold cover of darkness to pick you up after five whole months of being apart.
I spent my whole entire day “getting your room ready” (since it had become where we “store” everything).
Our grocery bill is going to be quite a bit higher for the next three weeks.
We both had to quarantine to the best of our ability for the last bunch of days.
I had to fill my pantry with all your favorites and drove back out to the store because I forgot something.
There will be more dirty dishes and meals I haven’t made in months.
ALL of that just doesn’t matter. Seriously.
WHAT DOES MATTER IS ALL OF THIS:
I watched you embrace the dad you have had wrapped around your finger since you burst forth on the scene in that sterile hospital room.
I heard your particular footsteps scampering to the bathroom this morning.
I soaked in the smell of your perfume you’ve been wearing since you were 13.
You sat with me eating your favorite cereal and we just had time to talk face-to-face.
The puzzle board is back out with pieces scattered in very neatly arranged areas.
We are going to decorate the Christmas tree together.
I am hearing your laughter right now as you chat with your brother.
We went on a walk today in the freshly fallen snow.
You are here if I want to see your face, be in the same room with you, and hold your hand on the couch while we binge watch our favorite mom/daughter show.
I’m zipping along, buying presents online, wrangling the tree that’s a little on the skinnier side this year, and opening the Christmas cookie can filled with goodies, sneaking a bite or two.
ALL OF A SUDDEN it hits me out of nowhere.
That odd feeling that has pangs of grief intertwined with downright disbelief.
I won’t be seeing my son this year for Christmas.
My son. My actual flesh-and-blood son whose tiny body I held on my bare skin just moments after he was forcepped out of my birth canal.
The boy that wrapped himself around my legs, refusing to step into his nursery school class.
The “too-cool-for-school,” chain-around-the-neck (with the green marks to prove it) preteen.
My very own guitar-playing, camera-toting, lacrosse-eyed 16-going-on-21-year-old who would scream “Hey Mom!” into the bleachers, not caring who was around.
The young man who lived in my basement after college, couches littered with his friends who called our house their “second home.”
I won’t be seeing him this year.
He has chosen (and rightfully so) to go with his beloved to see her family.
I get it.
Completely.
I did the exact same thing when I was navigating all that weird “who do we visit this year?” choices of the young adult.
But it doesn’t make it easy.
He’s still my baby boy in all.the.ways.
You get it.
I know you get it.
But who said this mom gig was easy?
No one ever.
It’s so dang hard.
We have no idea what we are getting ourselves into when we see those TWO LINES on the little screen.
No idea how much we are going to love this human. No idea how good it’s going to feel often. No idea how awful the constant goodbyes are (to seasons and to them). No idea how wonderful and complicated and messy and beautiful it ALL IS.
The pangs and disbelief will show up out of nowhere in the next couple of weeks.
I’m ready for them. Kind of. I’ll cry for sure.
But you know what?
I’m really glad for them.
It means what we have is good. He’s one of my people. It’s how I always wanted it to be.
Lest you think we’ve got it all “going on,” I can promise you that it wasn’t always this way.
During his rough senior year, I was counting down the days until he left for college. I almost made a paper chain (it was that rough).
But now, thanks to the very kind God above, and a lot of keeping my mouth shut and my heart open, I might just make a whole different paper chain, one that counts down the days until I see him again.
The mantra sung and chanted and begged for in 1969.
1969.
War rages and protests break out all over.
Charles Manson cult members murder 5 people.
Hurricane kills 248 people.
Chappaquiddick (look it up).
Police raid a gay club in New York City. The Stonewall Riot ensues.
1969 sounds like a year I would want to AVOID with all my might.
GIVE PEACE A CHANCE.
What the messenger asked of a young, brown-skinned, oppressed, poor girl named Mary.
4 BCish.
Herod the Great kills his own family to hold onto his reign of brutality.
Taxation of the poor is almost 50-60%.
The main feature of life is gender separation except for sex.
Revolts and uprisings are commonplace.
Politics and religion intertwine and hatred for the “other” rules.
4 BCish sounds like a year I would want to AVOID with all my might.
GIVE PEACE A CHANCE.
What our collective, modern-day hearts continue to yearn and plead for.
2020
COVID threatens everything we have worked so hard for.
Politics and religion intertwine and hatred for the “other” rules.
Sex-trafficking is at an all-time high.
Natural disasters are some of the most destructive ever.
Racial tension sparks protests and riots and looting.
2020 is a year I want to AVOID with all my might (I bet you do too).
GIVE PEACE A CHANCE.
PEACE.
The idea that ALL IS WELL.
inside and outside
individually and collectively
mentally, physically, spiritually and emotionally
for EVERYONE.
Not just for some.
Not just for the rich.
Not just for the healthy.
Not just for the insiders.
Not just for the free.
BUT for everyone.
The rich and the poor.
The healthy and the sick.
The insiders and the marginalized.
The free and the prisoner.
GIVE PEACE A CHANCE.
PEACE.
HOW? HOW? HOW?
Begged for in 1969.
Asked for in 4 BC (ish).
Yearned for STILL in 2020.
Something so elusive. So difficult. So needed.
HOW? HOW? HOW?
HOW DO WE MAKE PEACE?
[not how do we KEEP peace – the want to AVOID with all my might]
1969.
4 BCish.
2020.
We MAKE PEACE by embracing that “ALL are created equal.” ALL.
Not just the ones who look, believe and act like us.
We MAKE PEACE by being willing to resolve turmoil. Both what rages on the outside and on the inside of us.
We MAKE PEACE by standing up for it. Saying “NO MORE!”
Both for others and ourselves.
We MAKE PEACE by fighting for it.
In our own hearts and homes first, but NOT stopping there.
We MAKE PEACE by making room (just like Mary in 4 BCish) for the Prince of Peace.
The One who embraces that ALL are created equal.
The One who resolves the turmoil that rages inside and out.
The One who stands up and says “NO MORE!”
The One who fights for our hearts and our homes, but does not stop there!
The One who shows up every moment of every day of every single year (even 2020)…and tenderly says…
GIVE PEACE A CHANCE.
**I lit the peace candle this morning for Advent week TWO**
The candle of “Hope” on this first day, this first Sunday of Advent.
It’s a new thing I’m doing this year, the year of all years.
The candle of Hope.
Hope.
A simple word. But not a simple word.
A complex and intricate word. A pregnant word.
Pregnant?
Yes, pregnant. The “full of meaning” kind of pregnant.
I’ve been pregnant six times. Two ended way too soon, loss and grief and confusion permeating my heart. Four ended at just the right time, joy and life and expectation bursting onto the scene.
Pregnant.
This word. Hope. What I felt every single time those two lines appeared on my bathroom counter.
This word. Hope.
Two times, it ended in a bloody mess. A bloody mess that brought the end of possibility, the death of the little life that had stopped growing, and abject heartache.
In this particular season of Advent, in all things 2020, it sure seems like I’m sitting in the middle of a bloody mess on my bathroom floor crying.
All I did was open my newspaper this morning.
[One-third of small businesses closed.]
[Numbers in hospitals highest they’ve ever been.]
[Two teenagers dead after Black Friday mall shooting.]
That was just the front page.
In this particular season of Advent, in all things 2020, it’s really okay to be sitting in the middle of a bloody mess on my bathroom floor crying.
It’s why I lit a candle this morning.
NOT because there is nothing to grieve.
NOT because everything is as it should be.
BUT exactly because there is lots to grieve.
BUT exactly because everything is NOT as it should be.
This word. Hope. What I felt every single time those two lines appeared on my bathroom counter.
BUT this word. Hope.
Four times, it also ended in a bloody mess. But those times, the bloody mess brought the beginning of possibility, the birth of the little life that had grown just enough, and undeniable joy.
Mary. My favorite pregnant woman.
Young, poor, single. A nobody.
In a world where her headlines read just like mine.
In a world where there was a lot to grieve.
In a world where everything was NOT as it should be.
BUT in her womb, a baby grew.
Just enough.
AND yes, her pregnancy ended in a bloody mess.
But hope tells me what her Baby tells me as He bursts on the scene.
[I’m right here with you in the middle of your grief.]
[I will put things right and things will be as they should.]
[Take courage, my child. Prepare your heart for Me.]
I’ve lived for a long time in the land of the BUT.
Hoping that happiness would spill out as I pondered all the “awesome” in my life.
Hoping that even though XYZ was hard, pointing out the good would quiet down the raw grief that kept welling up inside.
Hoping beyond hope that gratitude would spring up and overflow to all those around me.
Dirty little secret. It didn’t work.
I just felt guilty, like an entitled little brat who didn’t get her way when her mom told her “no more cookies.”
I stuffed down my sadness in favor of all manner of positivity, only to find it leak out in ways like resentment and unkindness.
I brought this yuck into my marriage, my parenting and my friendships, only to perpetuate this vicious cycle.
One little word changed all of this.
The word I’ve come to desperately NEED and LOVE, especially in 2020, the year of all years.
The word that helps me to embrace all of my humanness and yours too, giving us opportunity for true and real connection.
The word that’s holding me this week as we head into Thanksgiving, giving space for gratitude in a whole new way.
This word: AND.
AND.
AND.
AND.
It’s goes something like this.
I am very sad that I can’t eat turkey and watch football with some of my kids this week
AND I am thankful because…
they are able to see each other and I have technology to communicate with them.
I am anxious about this dang virus and all the numbers going up
AND I am thankful because…
none of the people I love is sick right now.
I am angry that local businesses are shutting their doors and the holidays are kind of being ruined
AND I am thankful because…
my husband just got a new job.
I am having a very hard time with all that’s been ravaged, lost, ripped away from the collective “us” this year
AND I am thankful because…
God is good and near and kind and with me in the middle of all of it.
So on this very 2020 Thanksgiving, my friend, let’s give ourselves permission to kick the land of the BUT to the curb and pitch our tent in the terra firma of the AND.
Breathe.
