No Slogans This Year

Normally, this is the moment when someone like me comes up with a clever way to describe the year. A phrase. A theme. A spiritual headline that makes the last twelve months feel organized and intentional. I suppose it’s the occupational hazard of preaching—to feel responsible for making meaning out of seasons that were never meant to be tidy.

But honestly, I have nothing like that this year.

I’ve reached the end of a twelve-month stretch and don’t have sufficient words for what this season has been. I have ideas. I have concepts. I have lessons. I just don’t have language that can fully hold it all. And for the first time, I’ve made peace with that. That, too, is part of the work.

What I can say is this: I have found myself moving from one realm of responsibility to another—sometimes intentionally, sometimes by necessity. Along the way, I’ve discovered that God has made me of some unreal stuff. Not invincible stuff. Not untouched stuff. But resilient enough to navigate pain, grief, and change without disappearing.

Still, I wonder what all of this will mean as the calendar turns.

Sure, I could stand up and declare that it’s my season for promotion, elevation, or breakthrough. I could borrow the language we’re all familiar with. But this year stripped away the last bit of cliché theology my spirit was still holding. I can no longer live in a world of spiritual absolutes built on sinking sand. I’ve learned—again—that faith is not strengthened by pretending struggle doesn’t exist.

We live in a culture constantly chasing “greater,” often without pausing to examine the cost of getting there. This year forced that examination. It tested every part of me—mind, body, soul, and spirit. And while I’ve come out on the other side, I didn’t emerge untouched.

I’m wounded.
I’m scarred.
I’m still wrestling.
But I am standing.

That alone is testimony.

It affirms the truth that God will never leave nor forsake us. But it also offers a sobering reminder: going through the fire does not mean you won’t smell like smoke. Survival does not erase evidence. Endurance still leaves marks.

One of the clearest lessons this year has taught me is the necessity of community. Going through the fire alone is unnecessary suffering. Going through it with others doesn’t remove the heat, but it does redistribute the weight. I understand now—more deeply than ever—that leaders need community, not as a luxury, but as lifeline. Strength without support is unsustainable.

I’ve also learned some harder truths. Everyone is not meant to occupy your inner space. You can’t help everyone. Desire cannot be gifted—it must already live within someone. And the “great cloud of witnesses” is not just a theological idea; it’s the living, breathing reminder that we are shaped by who walks with us, cheers for us, and tells us the truth.

This year unveiled a lot.

So if you’re looking for a polished conclusion or a prophetic bow to wrap things up neatly, I don’t have one. What I do have is solidarity.

For those who have been addressing challenge after challenge all year long—who didn’t get relief, just resolve—this is for you. For those who are ending the year tired but present, unsure but faithful, changed but still committed—we stand together.

We move forward not because everything is clear, but because we are still here.
Scarred, yes.
Wiser, hopefully.
Ready—not with certainty, but with courage—for whatever the next phase requires.

And for now, that is enough.