It began as a last-minute idea as we backed out of the driveway. After a lovely evening celebrating Christmas with dear friends, my friend said, “Laurie, on your drive across country tomorrow, if each of you shares twenty memories from the year, you’ll have one hundred together.” She gave a few quick guidelines and said, “See you next year!”
Honestly, I don’t know how intentional her words were. We had spent hours together, and our three elementary- and middle-school-aged kids were on the brink of a post-Christmas meltdown. Also, my husband and I were anticipating the five of us embarking on a twenty-two-hour drive the next morning to see family for Christmas after a very hard year.
Did my friend have any idea how desperate I was to foster connection with my kids? Did she know that her idea would grow into one of the only traditions my nomadic family still holds? Did she know how much I would need a gentle rhythm of reflection and remembrance?
The next day, as we drove across Kansas, we awkwardly began listing memories—some of us more visibly engaged than others. We did our best to keep in mind our friend’s three simple guidelines. One, no judging and no correcting. It’s not our job to fact-check one another. Two, you are sharing memorable moments: both highlights and lowlights. Finally, what someone shares is precious to them. We get to honor them by holding their memory with gentleness.
A stellar vacation, moving across town, a wedding proposal, a funeral, new friends, a book club, a road trip, a broken arm, and trips to a faraway land. What the five of us listed might have been trivial in the moment, but we finished our very first year of remembering.
When we returned home and undecorated the house from the holidays, I placed the lists in each of our Christmas stockings to save as a reminder for the following year. When I say this is one of the only traditions my family keeps, it is because I struggle with consistency. But every year, when we pull out the decorations, our lists are there waiting. If we celebrate Christmas on the road, we take our stockings (and our lists) with us. We have written our lists on the Paris metro, on long road trips rambling through the Midwest, on overseas flights, and in the mountains of France. Sometimes the page is printed out, other times it’s handwritten.
Just as our location has evolved, so too has the list itself. We continue to write down our twenty memories. Now other prompts accompany the list, providing a place for us to record hobbies, interests, books, resolutions, and things we’re happy to leave behind.
Each December when we hang our stockings, we pause to read over our lists from the years before. The five of us lean in with wonder, delight, and tenderness. There are exclamations at handwriting or of stories long-forgotten. Sometime during the first week of the year, we share our reflections over a special meal. It amazes me to see how we have grown in sharing our memories—in becoming a space where we are safe with one another. I am delighted that the kids, now grown, still value this practice. And I pause with gratitude in my heart for what the Lord has done and for how he has carried each of us.
While this began as an activity to keep us busy on a road trip, it has framed my own annual practice of reflection. Personally, I struggle with January. Any remaining holiday glitter is soon to be put away. It’s dark, cold, and—after the rush of the holiday season—it’s slow. To stave off seasonal lows, I have been known to panic-fill my schedule or to create twenty resolutions to try to work myself out of a fog (only to break each resolution in the first two weeks!). None of these are sustainable—or kind—for my post-holiday self.
Over the past few years, I have been growing in my embrace of the slow of January. There is an almost audible sigh of relief from the slowing of the calendar. January has become a tender season for me of resting, recovering, remembering, and reflecting. Of not giving in to the urge to over-plan, over-reflect, or to be harsh with myself. Of sitting in the presence of the Father and processing with him what has
gone before. It is a time of grace.
As I sit with the Father through the month, I’m able to notice. How is he drawing me into the new year? How do I want to draw nearer to him? Is there anything in me that needs tending? What shifts might I need to make? What plans do I need to make sure to set early? And where do I need to practice the gift of saying no? In the quiet of the slow, I am more able to hear his voice. I am calm enough to discern between warring motives and conflicting options.
As I hang the calendar for the new year, I find myself ready to step into all that he has for me and to walk with him. I gingerly place my glimmers of hope into his gentle hands.
Do you have a rhythm of reviewing the year, individually or as a family?
Check out the template our family uses and get ideas for your own!
