As we stand on the cusp of 2026, I find myself lingering in the in-between—not in the glow of clarity for the future and not fully in the muck of the past, but caught somewhere between what has passed and what has yet to come.
There have been many years when I’ve approached the new year with excitement—anticipating what lies ahead, ready to map out goals, or eager to do a year-in-review. But this year, I am dragging my feet.
Unexpected things happened this past year—things I didn’t plan for, didn’t choose, and couldn’t control. When it all began, all I wanted was for it to be “resolved,” and in many ways it now is: decisions have been made, and the dust seems to have settled.
I assumed that resolution would bring understanding, or at least relief. I even pinned some hope on the new year, imagining that the turn of the calendar might magically confer clarity (bippity boppity boo!). But here it is, and I find myself still unsure of what it all means, still uncertain about how I feel about everything that’s happened.
In my recent sermon on Matthew 2, I was struck again by the story of Joseph and the flight into Egypt. After the magi depart, Joseph is warned in a dream: “Get up, take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt” (Matthew 2:13).
“Egypt?! Really?!” I can almost hear Joseph give God’s Angel the side-eye. “Flee… to Egypt? Surely you’re mistaken. You do remember what happened there, right?!”
For Israel, Egypt was a land pregnant with memories of fear, bondage, and exile. Egypt is the very place from which Joseph’s and Mary’s ancestors were delivered, yet it carried the heavy weight of enslavement in the collective imagination (admittedly, it’s a nuanced memory; also holding other stories).
And yet, in Matthew 2, Egypt becomes the place of refuge. Safety, protection, and posterity are not found by moving forward, but by turning back.
For the people of Israel, Joseph and Mary’s return can be seen as a sign of continuity. Egypt had been a place of subjugation for the people of God, and yet through this detour, God protects the child who would fulfill the promises made, not just to Israel, but through Israel for the entire world.
The continuity matters because it reminds us that God’s work does not skip over history—personal or collective—in order to move things forward. God’s protection and provision can often lead us through dangerous or undesirable places. And God weaves promise through places we would rather leave behind, places that we would rather avoid or pretend don’t exist.
The act of returning was a kind of reconciliation with the past—an honest acknowledgment of pain and trauma, not as something to be excused or erased, but as something that needed to be dealt with. By going there again, God did not undo what had been suffered but made room for something new to grow from that very place. It was an act of redemption and resurrection: the creation of new life, and even new memory, in a land that had once been marked by fear and death.
Joseph and Mary and the Christ child stayed there, remained in Egypt, until they were released, until God made it clear that the time had come to move forward. Egypt wasn’t the final destination, but it was a necessary one.
It’s not true that we can step into the future without first tending to the past. Healing, understanding, and faithful living invite us to remain with (or return to) what has already happened. Sometimes that means letting our hearts and minds catch up with experiences and decisions we may have rushed through or barely understood. Sometimes it may mean revisiting choices, memories, or places of pain—not to dwell there, but to allow understanding and healing and perspective to take root.
And when the time comes to move on, we can trust that God will let us know.
On the eve of 2026, I am reminding myself that waiting, lingering – it’s not failure—it is part of the work and part of the rhythm of a life of faith.
This is what Scripture offers me right now—not answers, but permission.
Permission to return rather than rush ahead. Permission to linger in the places that still ache or are still unsure instead of plastering over them with goals and good intentions. I feel permission to tend what remains tender before insisting that I am “ready” for whatever comes next.
This kind of wisdom feels subversive as a new year approaches. The world tells us that January is for reinvention, for productivity, for decisive forward motion. We are expected to emerge from December with clarity and vision boards and, at the very least, a working draft of who we plan to become. But Scripture keeps interrupting that narrative. The story in Matthew 2 shows us that God’s self often leads us directly into the in-between places, where waiting itself becomes the soil from which new life grows.
Meaning often unfolds slowly, in the living of it. And Scripture gives us permission to stop demanding that our lives make sense on a timetable that has more to do with cultural pressure than with any kind of spiritual truth.
We have permission to acknowledge that resolution on the outside does not equal understanding on the inside. Stability does not equal insight. And sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is stay put long enough for our hearts to catch up with what our lives have already endured.
Returning, in this way, is not regression. Lingering is not failure. Tending the past is not a lack of faith. It is an act of trust that God is present in the waiting and in the pauses and is weaving meaning where we cannot yet see it.
A blessing for this new year:
Beloved of God,
as you step into this new year,
may you trust that wherever you are on the journey,
God is with you.
If you are eager to move forward,
may your steps be guided by wisdom and grace.
If you are lingering or waiting,
may you know that God meets you there.
If the road ahead feels clear,
may you walk it with humility and courage.
If the road is still unfolding beneath your feet,
may you trust that it will meet you as you go.
May God be present in your movement and in your pause,
in your confidence and in your questions,
and may you be held by the faith that God is weaving meaning through every step.
Go into this new year held by grace,
led by love,
and accompanied by a God
who walks with you—
whether you are ready to run
or need a moment to stand still.
Amen.
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