The Night the Calendar Turns

New Year’s Eve Reflections on Faith, Crowds, and the Roads We Choose

Happy New Year. Yes, I’m writing this on New Year’s Eve. Retirement has a way of loosening one’s grip on the official holiday calendar.

New Year’s Eve has always carried a reflective weight for me. Even for those who claim not to care much about resolutions, there’s something about the calendar turning that invites a pause. I’ve always been inclined to look back before looking ahead—to take inventory of what changed, what stayed the same, and what quietly slipped away.

I didn’t think much about any of that in the 1960s when I graduated from high school. Life felt more linear then, less layered. Still, change was already at work. I went from an eighth-grade class of fewer than twenty students at a small Catholic school to a high school graduation of more than three hundred at Parsippany High School in New Jersey. It felt enormous at the time—a widening world.

Looking back now, that moment feels like an early hint of something I couldn’t yet name: that the way we mark time and celebrate beginnings keeps changing as we do. The calendar repeats itself, but we never quite meet it the same way twice.

On my mother’s side of the family, New Year’s Eve was always a genuine celebration. We’d travel to my aunt and uncle’s home in Pennsylvania—an adventure in itself, since my dad wasn’t especially fond of family gatherings. But Uncle Paul made it worth it. A local fireman, sharply dressed in his uniform, he carried himself with a quiet strength I admired.

Because of him, New Year’s felt like a party—not the adult kind, but the child-friendly version filled with food, laughter, and endless Coca-Cola in small glass bottles we treasured. There were paper hats, noisemakers, pots and pans at midnight, and a loud, joyful Happy New Year!—all before televised countdowns came to define the holiday.

High school graduation quietly changed the tradition. I don’t remember asking permission to take a date thirty miles away to Times Square, but that’s where we ended up. Surrounded by what felt like the entire country, I was overwhelmed—though not yet wise enough to know what we’d signed up for.

Times were different then. No cell phones. Few police barricades. No televised hosts. Just people, party hats, bottles tucked into winter coats, and a city humming with shared anticipation. For one brief hour, it felt like everyone was everyone else’s friend—or at least willing to pretend.

The official countdown was amazing through teenage eyes. Planning, however, was not my strength. We parked miles from the action—a distance that somehow doubled once it was over. With subways closed and crowds moving in the opposite direction, the walk back felt endless. By the time we reached the car, it seemed we’d hiked the Appalachian Trail.

Still, that walk was doing something important. It was creating a memory—one that would last forever, or at least long enough to be told decades later at a New Year’s Eve party.

Years later, during my season of youth ministry, I found myself invited to speak at a New Year’s Eve gathering for teens—a positive, faith-based alternative with pizza, loud music, and adults serving as chaperones. I agreed months in advance, unaware of the venue or the chaos to come.

These were good kids. But I hadn’t realized I’d be addressing hundreds of students packed into what might generously be called a restaurant. Students filled every seat, sat on the floor, and lined the walls. What they didn’t know was that the night would pause for a short spiritual reflection—delivered by a very small man, without a microphone, sound system, or much chance of being heard.

It was a formula for chaos. The organizers were as surprised as I was. They’d expected something smaller and more intimate. Instead, the room filled far beyond anything planned.

Quitting has never been part of my DNA. So I began.

With help from a few familiar students and the organizers, we cleared space and invited a core group to sit near the center. Some came willingly. Others stayed put, understandably skeptical.

That’s when my topic changed.

I told a story—my teenage New Year’s Eve story. It wasn’t polished or profound. I simply spoke louder. They listened more closely. And for about fifteen uncertain minutes, we all leaned into the moment together, wondering how the night might turn out.

And the story I told them was simple. I started by telling them how glad I was that they had chosen to be there that night. Then I talked about being a teenager—about how, sometimes, it can feel like everyone in the world is choosing a different direction, both in the moment and in life. I told them about my own New Year’s Eve years earlier, standing in Times Square, trying to make sense of where I was headed while the crowd surged in every other direction.

The point wasn’t that the journey would be easy. It rarely is. But I shared with them that a faith journey often begins the same way we parked the car that night—far from the destination, unsure of the route, but committed to moving forward anyway. And I reminded them that having others to walk with doesn’t shorten the distance, but it does make the journey richer and more bearable.

I told them that the chaos of that evening might just be a preview of what the coming year would hold—noise, uncertainty, unexpected turns. But sometimes faith means choosing to walk a different path, even when it’s crowded and unclear.

 You might think that after a few of those experiences I would have quietly retired from New Year’s Eve altogether—perhaps returning to something closer to Uncle Paul’s version. But instead, I convinced myself that maybe we could do it differently. Maybe we could create something back home that felt welcoming, safe, and just a little adventurous.

And so the madness began.

Year after year, New Year’s Eve became an invitation to imagine something new. Each time we tried to offer a unique experience—never polished, rarely predictable, and often accompanied by my private vow that this would probably be the last one. Many of those nights remain deeply imprinted in my memory, not because everything went as planned, but because so much didn’t.

One year, we rented a bus—something we had never done before—and headed toward Cincinnati for a Riverboat Dinner Cruise on the Ohio River. About fifty students signed up, and anticipation ran high until freeze warnings shut the river down and the cruise was canceled at the last minute. What followed was a scramble that somehow turned into an adventure: impromptu reservations at a fancy restaurant willing to take us in, a few hours of bowling, and an early-morning breakfast—all made possible by businesses willing to say yes to a group of tired teenagers and a hopeful youth leader with a bus full of Plan B.

Another year, creativity took a different turn. Our Sunday evening youth ministry—high-energy and well-attended—had earned the nickname The Evening Zoo. Somewhere along the way, we thought it would be a good idea to invite a local radio DJ from the actual Morning Zoo to join a New Year’s Eve celebration. Attendance doubled. The energy stayed high. And, as it turned out, the DJ was far more popular with students than with parents, who understandably worried about lyrics and conversation crossing invisible lines. I explained the expectations ahead of time, and the DJ laughed, confident he could make everyone happy. Somehow, he did. The night worked. The legacy lingered. And I was still employed when it was over.

What strikes me now isn’t the risk-taking or even the creativity, but the community that made it possible. Year after year, students kept showing up. Friends invited friends. Adults volunteered—late nights, long hours, little recognition—just to make sure no one got hurt and everyone felt welcome. Looking back, I feel more gratitude than pride. Gratitude that people trusted the idea. Gratitude that things mostly worked. Gratitude that even when they didn’t, something good still came of it.

And as legend would have it, there was at least one more New Year’s Eve when we decided to add something extra to our annual party.

At some point prior to our party, I told a story from my high school years—how I had once been part of the New Jersey State Wrestling Tournament. One of our students, John, happened to be on the local wrestling team, and before long he challenged me to a short match. The idea was simple: add a little spectacle, raise a few dollars for missions, and give everyone a reason to laugh at our upcoming New Year’s Eve party.

I explained to John that we would pass the hat, and if enough money came in, I would wrestle him—and, of course, beat him. The hat made its way around the room, and when it came back with about a hundred dollars, the deal was sealed.

Now, I knew there was no chance I was going to win. Somewhere between the challenge and the mat, my goal quietly shifted—from victory to dignity. If I could avoid making a complete fool of myself, I would count the night as a success.

John still remembers it as a victory, and to be fair, it was. But years later I finally confessed the fuller truth: my connection to the state tournament wasn’t as a competitor, but as a member of the team—there to offer moral support. The laughter that followed was worth far more than the money in the hat.

The Fake New Year

Not every story from our trips is about deep faith or transformation. Some are simply about joy—the kind that sneaks up on you and stays.

It was unusual for our team to be working over New Year’s Eve, but winter break and cheap airfare made it possible. After several long days of work and teaching at a church compound in Hopewell, Jamaica, a few students decided to organize a New Year’s Eve party for the whole team.

None of us knew what celebrating would look like locally, and most agreed it might be safer—and simpler—to stay inside the compound. So we let the students take the lead.

Normally, our trips honored strict lights-out rules, but for this one night we made an exception. The students planned everything: food, games, decorations. The only problem was timing. By 10:00 p.m., the snacks were gone, the energy had dipped, and the party was fading into something politely awkward. Still, no one wanted to hurt the planners’ feelings, so we stayed, smiled, and waited.

That’s when Gabe stepped in.

Gabe was our trip leader—dependable, thoughtful, and quietly mischievous. He came to me with an idea: a harmless deception to save the evening and protect the students’ pride.

This was the pre–cell phone era. No one had a clock or a watch—by design. We wanted students to disconnect from rigid schedules and settle into the slower rhythm of life around us. Gabe simply set his watch an hour ahead.

At 10:50 p.m., he announced that midnight was approaching. He led a song or two, began the countdown, wished everyone a heartfelt Happy New Year, and declared it time for bed. There was a tired cheer. Students hugged, laughed softly, and shuffled off without question. Within thirty minutes, lights were out and the compound was quiet, save for the familiar chorus of barking dogs outside.

Then—real midnight arrived.

The town erupted with music, fireworks, and celebration. Students sat up in bed. Laughter broke out. A few groaned. Others protested playfully. The realization spread quickly.

Gabe had pulled it off.

No one had questioned him—not because he was sneaky, but because they trusted him. That trust had been earned over a long week of shared work, listening, and presence. And in the end, no one was angry. They laughed. They still laugh.