So we say good-bye to the old year, close the door upon it and turn to face 1945. No miracle occurs at midnight; we are a little older but probably no wiser; we lack even power to say we will be happier or better men and women in the coming months. The conditions that shape our lives stare at us blankly from the dates of the new calendar.

For most of us Jan. 1 is no more a day of momentous decision than, say, July 2 or Sept. 4 were or will be. Individual crises—the points that all men reach where they must stand and decide which way they are going to turn—come regardless of dates.

But there is something in the year-end that bids us pause; it is a time for calm review of what has passed, and for a prayer that we will meet what is to come with honesty and courage.

In days of war no man can live unto himself alone, so to a great extent our New Year hopes and recollections are shared with our countrymen. With them we have seen 1944’s swelling promise of victory bog down in the mud of the Western Front, and had our sky-high summer dreams blown to ribbons by the harsh winds of reality. We have survived that. With them we now face 1945, labelled far more confidently than ever 1944 was as the victory year. Although we consciously brace ourselves for the disappointments and setbacks that must come, we still believe tenaciously in final victory.

We could look at our personal lives in much the same way. Each new year—each new day, for that matter—promises to be one of individual victory, be it worldly or moral. Most of us are rueful when we sit in honest contemplation of our records, dubious when we look ahead. But we still can believe there are goals for us to achieve and that confidence enables us to say, and to mean it:

Happy New Year!