Well, the tree is down, the ornaments and lights packed away (never, ever again even remotely fitting back into the tight little boxes they occupied on the retailer's shelves), and the noisemakers swept from Times Square for another year. May it all have been peaceful and memorable for you and yours, or at minimum, something that didn't take you too far over your credit card limit.
As to New Year's expectations, I'm mildly disappointed that God didn't give Pat Robertson any clue as to whether or not I will win Powerball in 2007, or if She did, that Pat simply isn't sharing right now. And I'm not holding my breath when I read that 38th Street is really finished and open until the Rapture, or until the Colts have a Superbowl-worthy defense, whichever comes first (or is it last?).
But I'm optimistic on a number of other fronts. Bush 43 faces both a Democrat-controlled House and Senate, Rummy is gone (although I thought his eulogy of Gerald Ford yesterday was infinitely better than his post-Iraq-invasion plans), and Brian Bosma will be wielding neither the gavel nor the prayerbook in the 2007-08 Indiana House. And I still hold out hope that the next time God speaks to Brian and his disciples about what the second paragraph of the so-called "Indiana Marriage Amendment" means, it will confirm what all the Saints, Angels, and Archangels concluded some time ago: They haven't a clue. And neither do I.
Happy New Year!