Unbind

Friend, here we are again, standing on the thin ice between one year and the next. The calendar flips, the fireworks fade, and we find ourselves taking stock… sometimes with gratitude, sometimes with a quiet ache.

Alan Fadling wrote a truth that cuts deep: "The reality of resurrection requires the reality of death first." It's not a tidy phrase for a greeting card. It's the raw gospel, the scandalous heart of what it means to follow Jesus. No Easter morning without Good Friday's grave. No new life springing up without the seed falling into the ground and dying.

And as we close out this year—whatever it held for you, triumphs or tears, mundane days or shattering ones… we're invited into that same pattern. To let parts of us die so that something truer, freer, more alive might rise.

The honest inventory

I've been pondering this as the days shorten and the nights lengthen. The old year feels like a worn-out garment, frayed at the edges. Maybe for you it was a year of abundance, where dreams took shape and relationships deepened. Or perhaps it was the year that didn't turn out as hoped—the losses piled up, the weariness settled in like fog, and hope felt like a distant memory.

Either way, there's wisdom in the rearview mirror. Celebrations to savour. Lessons etched deep into the soul. But to move forward, we have to face what needs to die: the illusions we clung to, the hurried rhythms that drained us, and the impossible standards we imposed on ourselves and others.

John Eldredge, in his gentle but unflinching way, offers a handful of questions to help us take an honest inventory. They're not accusations; they're invitations to come home to ourselves, to God, to the life Jesus promised: abundant, restful and joyful.

Are you happy most of the time? Or content and satisfied, not chasing some elusive perfection? How much of life do you actually enjoy, or are you perpetually holding yourself and everyone around you to standards that crush the spirit?

I remember seasons when my answer was a resounding no. Life felt like a treadmill set too fast, and contentment was a faraway stranger. We perfectionists…. and aren't we all, in our own ways? …building prisons of 'should' and 'must', forgetting that the God who made us delights in our imperfect offerings.

The good news is that we're beloved not because we're polished, but precisely in our brokenness. Jesus doesn't wait for us to get our act together. He meets us in the mess, arms wide, saying, "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."

How often do you feel light-hearted? That's a piercing one, isn't it? Light-hearted… like a child chasing bubbles, or friends lost in laughter. What is it like to be on the other side of you? Do your reactions fit the moment, or do they erupt like volcanoes because the pressure's been building unnoticed?

I confess, there have been far too many moments when laughter was rare, when seriousness wrapped around me like a shroud. Being 'on' all the time: hyper-responsible, productive, efficient, robbed me of play. And yet God is not a taskmaster scowling from heaven. He's the Father who throws parties for prodigals, who rejoices over us with singing. Lightheartedness isn't frivolity; it's a sign of trust, of knowing we are held.

We are held. We are His. One of my enduring convictions.

Are you excited about your future? Do you dream about what God has for you? Or is there a foreboding, a dread that whispers nothing good is coming? Eldredge says a clear signal of weariness is the inability to hope, to dream. It doesn't mean you're depressed… it often just means you're bone-tired. The soul's reserves are empty. We've been running on fumes, scrolling and striving and surviving, and have forgotten how to lift our eyes to the horizon.

This lands close for many of us at year's end. The future looms, uncertain. Resolutions tempt us with self-improvement schemes, but if we're weary, they just add weight. What if, instead, we let the old dreams die: the ones rooted in control or performance, and make space for God's dreams to emerge? Resurrection requires death first. Maybe the death of our frantic planning, our addiction to productivity. In the quiet, something new stirs.

Do you feel deeply loved? Eldredge says this question reveals enormous things about our lives. So many addictions: work, approval, substances, screens – stem from a cavernous lack of feeling loved. It shapes how we relate to God, to others, and to ourselves.

And this is the crunchy foundation of it all, if we could only accept it: God loves you as you are, not as you should be, because nobody is as they should be. And so we gather at the table of grace, feasting on unearned affection. When was the last time you let that sink in… not as doctrine, but as an embrace?

When did you last laugh so hard it hurt? Laughter is medicine for the soul, a release valve for the pressures we carry. It's a mark of wholeness, of letting go. I think of Jesus… did he laugh? Surely, with friends around a fire, sharing wine and stories. He wept, yes, but he also rejoiced. Laughter says, "The world isn't ultimate. Grace is."

The diagnosis, not the sentence

As we teeter on this threshold, these questions aren't meant to shame us but to diagnose, to awaken. They're like a spiritual check-up before the new year rushes in. Where are you weary? Where has death already visited—perhaps in disappointments, endings, failures? That's holy ground. Because resurrection follows.

I recall a time when everything felt dead. Life had hollowed me out. Relationships strained. Dreams deferred made the heart sick, as Proverbs says. I couldn't dream anymore; foreboding ruled. Laughter was rare. Contentment was elusive.

But in that death-like season, God invited me to let go. To die to the false self I'd constructed: the one that had to perform, achieve, and impress. It was painful, like crucifixion. Ego nailed to the cross. But slowly, imperceptibly, new life broke through. Light-hearted moments returned. Hope flickered. I felt loved… not for what I did, but for who I was in Christ.

The invitation

Friend, this is the invitation now. As the year dies, let what needs to die go with it. The frustrations that linger and the resentments we've nursed. The hurried pace that stole our best. The impossible standards. The addictions to control or distraction. Bury them in the grave of grace.

And wait. Resurrection isn't manufactured; it's received. It comes in the ordinary… a walk in the woods, a shared meal, silence before God. In letting God love us again and afresh... In dreaming again, not from striving, but from rest.

Eugene Peterson paraphrased Jesus' words in Matthew: "Are you tired? Worn out? Burnt out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me, and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me: watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace."

Unforced rhythms. That's the new year I long for. Not more resolutions, but resurrection. Dying to the old, rising to the new. Light-hearted. Content. Deeply loved. Laughing hard.

‘Come Out’

There's a story in the Gospels where Jesus stands before Lazarus' tomb and weeps. Then he calls, "Lazarus, come out!" The dead man walks, bound in graveclothes. Jesus says, "Unbind him, and let him go."

That's us, in all honesty. We've been in tombs of weariness, perfectionism, fear. But Jesus calls us out. Unbinds us. Sets us free to live… to really live.

As this year closes, hear him calling your name. Let the old die. Step into the light. The resurrection life awaits.

What if this year we practiced that? Starting with honesty before these questions. Or whatever else. Letting death do its work. Trusting the One who conquered death to bring life.

And who knows? Maybe this coming year, we'll laugh so hard it hurts. Live more authentically. Feel deeply loved. And walk light-heartedly into whatever God has.

Because resurrection always follows death. Always.