I never understood why we size up years. "Here we go," we say. "365 days—(sometimes 366) decided by how many times we go around the sun (or the moon goes around us, or the planets orbit each other, or whatever...we can't always remember why it's 365) to become a perfect person. If you can't do it all by then, don't worry: there's another set next year and we've already named it. Specifically, 2017, which we decided is better than 2016 after Bon Jovi and Prince died. In fact, destroy the rest of your ambitions in 2016 because after the presidential election the world only gets worse. 2017 might be better than 2016 only because all our childhood idols put up the Botox for ashes (wait didn't ---- already die a while back?), but it really can't be much better because why keep on living? Also, let's resolve to do what we resolved this year and the year before which was obviously better than 2016 but was worse than the 365 days before when which is why we're still doing the same resolutions from 2012 because it was an awful year and we never got over that. On the other hand it's not the glory days six 365 (or 366) sets ago when we were kids."
Of course, some years are better than others. Personally, I thought it couldn't get any worse for me than 2013, which is what I still believed when the scientific articles from high-brow journals came flooding out this past week explaining why 2016 was the very worst year for everyone.
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Their opinions were backed by a handful of reasons, most of which were the names of the celebrities that had died, and the rest that Trump got elected, with a few hat-tips to the fatal, tragic terrorist attacks earlier in the year. Remember France, everyone? Yeah, you remember the flag-- you changed your Facebook profile picture to it to make you look good.
Maybe it makes sense to divide our life into years. It gives us birthdays, explains phenomenons, makes holidays an annual event, and even lets us divide years into months so we can have our own astronomical signs (I'm Leo.) I mean what would we do without years? Without them, how would I be able to explain to you that I'm 19 years-old? By many a much wiser eye, just a girl just fresh from the bassinet writing to those who may be 18, 9, even 100 years old about New Year's.
Did I see January 1927? Lived to the first day in 1940? Come up to the knees of a 1960s grasshopper watching men's blood and the war cries of protestors drown the lily fields? While we're at it, did I live through that '90's Alabama Blizzard? I wasn't even born. Don't remember 9-11 that well because I couldn't read the captions on the T.V. set.
No, I don't have the experience of most people. And I'm certainly not advocating returning that 2017 kitten calendar to Walmart (that's dumb.)
But what I do know is that inside of me is Someone much older and wiser than anyone ever on this Earth. I know that because He hovered over the face of the deep before it was even Earth. He rested in Jesus Who said, born of the Spirit, "Before Abraham was, I am." Abraham is very old.
He belongs to the Trinity, a godhead, three in one.
"What does this have to do with 2017?" you ask. "What's this got to do with anything?"
I don't know what 2017 brings. Neither do you. Maybe it will be better than 2016—maybe even worse. It doesn't really matter. It's all silly. It certainly won't be perfect
We could be dead tomorrow.
Instead of banking on New Year's resolutions and gym memberships that won't last for longer than two months, and false kindness that won't last through the traffic jam, why can't we just stop investing in 365 (or 366) days we aren't even guaranteed to have?
I'm only 19 years-old. But is it too abhorrent to wonder whether or not it's better to make an investment now rather than wait until another few hundred turns of the Earth, on where we'll be depositing our souls?
Perfection isn't something you can reach with resolutions. It's in Someone Who lived a perfect life to save you.
