NO RESOLUTIONS, JUST LOVE
A better way forward. Plus five books to renew the spirit.
The truth is that fear cannot coexist with love.
Hello!
I write to you from the road*, on a 14-hour drive from Chicago to New York, on the other side of a boisterous, full, loving, heartbreaking, abundant, delicious Christmas with my family (all twenty of us under one roof!). On the last day together, we all stood in the kitchen and sobbed—it is hard to leave the ones we love.
Early in December, my husband and I met with friends for egg sandwiches and coffee in the glow of a cafe Christmas tree with our combined six children lined up in Christmas sweaters and rosy cheeks. Before, we’d each gone to our respective churches—theirs a Catholic mass, ours an independent temple of faith with a heavy focus on community and service.
Each of the pastors had given dynamic sermons that day: ours about growing into our full, God-given potential in 2025; theirs had given a metaphor about the new year being an opportunity to walk through a new door, referencing the Roman Catholic observance of Jubilee* (from Dec 24, 2024 until Epiphany 2026). Later that day, a nonreligious friend offered me a similar 2025 prediction: a year of forgiveness and celebration is coming.
“What you think about you bring about," I say to my children, repeatedly since they were tiny. "Where energy goes, that’s where new energy flows." I've tried to teach them about the power of positive thinking and the law of attraction, using our mind to give power to good thoughts / good deeds and not to evil, worry, or hurt.
Focus on the positive. Believe in the good. Assume the best in others and for yourself.
These are the mantras of my life, the mantras of my parenthood. I deeply believe in them. And so I want to believe 2025 will be our best year yet. Yet, I also know that in 2025, our children will make messes (literal or figurative) that we don't feel equipped to handle some days. People we love will hurt us, intentionally or not. We will be told things about ourselves that feel painful, whether they are true or not. Someone dear to us may get sick. Good, innocent people will die before their time. To be human is to endure suffering, some of the time.
But I also know this: love, true and unconditional love, love free of judgment, a love of goodwill, is the way forward. Love is the path to the Jubilee.
It takes love to forgive a child or a parent who has hurt us
to hold space for the creative process even when it is messy
to tolerate the neighbor/roommate/classmate with careless habits
to forgive a partner for not reading our minds
to overcome a painful memory, a hurtful word
to give others the benefit of the doubt
It takes love to admonish fear and worry
to believe in the people around us and even in ourselves
to trust the timing of our life
It takes love to forgive
to move forward
to choose joy
Years ago, I took a wonderful trip to Mexico with my dear parents, my sweet sister, and my young children, then ages 3 and 7 (my husband couldn’t join us). My son was recovering from a broken leg and had gotten out of a cast two weeks early so he could swim on the trip. That week, he walked with a boot (and sometimes without) for the first time in two months.
Traveling home through Chicago, I carried him on an Ergo on my back through the airport, where I would say goodbye to my parents after the first flight and continue to New York with the kids. At O'hare, in a fit of exhaustion (if you've ever experienced international travel with toddlers, you know), Mátyás threw himself off my back onto the hard bathroom floor before I could safely strap him back in. His cry was immediate and hysterical. I was flooded with fear.
When I finally settled him, he fell asleep in his stroller, exhausted. Did he have a concussion? Brain damage? Should I wake him?
I had a hard choice to make: cancel my second flight to New York and spend the night in the ER near O’hare, get him a CT scan, and put all of us through an emotional fire drill, or carry my sleeping son through security safely in my arms, board the flight home to my husband, hoping and praying he'd be ok.
My dad, a physician, examined him. Mátyás slept soundly in my arms, breathing peacefully, and all his vital signs steady. I chose to get on the flight, taking our three seats in the plane's last row, where families with young kids are often tucked away. He slept the entire flight; I prayed.
He woke up as we landed around 10 p.m., and by the time we taxied in, he was bouncing around in his seat—his usual self. As the plane emptied, he jumped up from our row, brushing against an older gentleman in front of us. Immediately, I scolded him, conditioned to believe a child's energy would be disruptive to a man of a certain age.
"Sit down! This isn't our home,” I said firmly. “Be respectful."
Instead of rejoicing at my son’s vigor, vitality, and joy—tremendous blessings after his worrisome fall—I worried about how others around us would perceive us—as a bother.
The gentleman, nearing 80, turned to me and said kindly, "We were all children once, weren't we? He must be awfully tired and excited to get home." He winked. His face softened into a warm smile before he turned and deboarded the plane. I scooped up my little boy and wept.
I think of that man often. To some, his words might seem like an unremarkable act— a basic human generosity. To me, his kindness was a much greater gift. It took a well of love for a total stranger to risk offending an exhausted mother—me—on behalf of her young son. It took love to see that boy as an innocent child, to see his goodness and joy. There was love in his wink and warm smile, which said, "I see that you're doing your best. It can’t be easy," without judgment or disdain.
This man had no way of knowing how much worry and trauma we'd endured just two hours before or how much we would need his compassion. He was a guardian angel to me and my children that night, traveling alone and weary. He brought me out of my head (fear, worry, conditioning) and back into my heart (acceptance and love), a place I sometimes struggle to stay.
In the spirit of Jubilee, my hope for this year is a simple one: that I lead with my heart. That I will see and look for love all around me. That I grow in generosity and tolerance—toward those I know and care for and those I don't. That my mercy and compassion will increase tenfold. And that 2025 will, indeed, be our year of renewal—of walking through a new door of forgiveness and love.
This is hope for me and for you—for all people everywhere.
xx
Sarah
*In JUDAISM, Jubliee is a year of emancipation and restoration, celebrated every fifty years, based on Old Testament texts. In CATHOLICISM, Jubliee it is a symbol of transformation and emancipation from sin, usually at intervals of twenty-five years. Pope Francis officially launched the 2025 Jubilee on December 24, 2024 by opening the Holy Door of St. Peter's Basilica—which symbolizes entering into the presence of God.
The Jubilee is thought to be a time of: Spiritual renewal (a time to recommit to transforming the world to a place where peace and justice reign), Forgiveness (and other acts of mercy), Pilgrimages (to Rome, the Holy Land, or other designated sacred sites), Reaching out (to those at the margins of society), Study (the study and appreciation of reglious texts).
*written on Dec. 29, 2024. Edited January 1, 2025.
FIVE BOOKS TO RENEW THE SPIRIT:
Around this time of year, I like to read / re-read these five books, which remind me that we are never alone in our suffering nor our quest for human connection and love.
Meditations by Marcus Aurelius
MORE READING, for expanding the human heart:
Letters from Love by
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I love all of this, Sarah. So beautifully put. Here's to a year of love (and to embracing paradox). ❤️
Happy New Year!