Precious time

Yesterday, while I was trolling the internet, I stumbled over a notice for a charity walk that took place in my old hometown area last fall. It’s an annual walk to support the fight against world hunger, one I’d joined many times when I lived in the area. I think I smiled for a nanosecond, remembering how much fun I used to have, and then I skimmed the full headline.

There was a name I recognized—tied to the words “in memory of”—the name of a woman I’d gone to church with for years, whose daughter was in my son’s Sunday School classes. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out she’d died.

I clicked to open the article and discovered she had indeed passed away several months before the event.  The article didn’t say how or why, but she was only a year or two older than I am, so my mind supplied all sorts of ailments and diseases that could have taken her life at a relatively young age. The cause doesn’t matter though. What matters is that a husband of 25-plus years and two college-age daughters lost a wife and mother, that the organization lost a tireless worker, and that many others lost a daughter, sister and friend.

I can’t say I counted myself among those friends. We never got to know each other well during the time I attended that church, but it made me so sad. Such a lovely lady, here one day, gone the next. I wish I’d taken the time to get to know her while I had the chance.

I wish it hadn’t taken the discovery of a long-past tragedy to remind me that time is precious.  And I wish I didn’t spend so much of it (time) wishing it away…wishing for the hours in a workday to fly, wishing for the days to pass and for the weekend to come.

As a writer, I joke that when I have to rewrite something, it’s no biggie. They’re just words, I tell myself, and there’s no bottom to the big ol’ barrel of words, so to speak. Words, to me, are the ultimate recyclable, the perfect renewable energy.

But time? Time is different. Time is more than precious. It’s the one “commodity” we can never manufacture, buy, or bargain for. Once it’s spent, it’s spent, never to be reclaimed.

So here I am telling myself (again) to use every minute of every day for something good, something purposeful. Something that will matter to someone, somewhere.  And here I am pledging to keep my loved ones close, to stay in touch, and to let them know how much they matter to me, every day.

I only hope I’ll have the time.

Bring back the cat!

I love speed. When I drive, that is. I don’t “speed” in a legal sense, but I love getting off to a quick start and staying ahead of the pack. On an open roadway, I love taking my feisty little Hyundai into a tight, banking curve, keeping her nice and steady until she can slingshot out the other side. (And yes, my cars are all “girls.” Don’t ask me why, they just are.)

My first behind-the-wheel experience with this phenomenon came courtesy of my husband’s 1974 Mercury Montego, a  low-slung beauty that was essentially an engine on wheels with a couple passenger seats. She had metallic bronze finish and a hood that stretched out front for what seemed like a mile. That car was pure power on wheels and took the steep mountain roads of Scranton, Pennsylvania, with the ease of a stroll down a country lane. I really, really liked driving that car.

I don’t think it was until that point that I realized how much I enjoyed speed. I’m not otherwise a “fast” person. I don’t take physical risks. I avoid carnival and amusement park rides like the plague. (Remind me to tell you some day about my mother pulling me off the kiddie roller-coaster when I was five years old.) I suffer from vertigo so can’t handle up-and-down motions, but take me to a Blue Angels or Thunderbirds show, and my heart races as if I’m inside the cockpits with the pilots, the powerful jet engines scrambling my insides as I fight those G’s.

As a young girl, I must have understood this about myself on some elemental level, because somewhere around age 10 I decided my “dream” car was a Jaguar. I think a family friend had a wealthy relative who owned one, and I fell in love at first sight with those sleek, powerful lines, and, most important, that solid silver jaguar captured, mid-leap, on the hood.

I could hear the big cat’s growl, see the bunch of its muscles as it raced across some southwestern dessert in search of its prey. It spoke to me of ultimate freedom, and I envied it and admired it simultaneously. So for years that hood ornament has, for me, epitomized a personal  state of automotive nirvana, my pathway to elegance, power and speed. Keep your Beemers, your Mercedes(es?) and Lexuses. No matter what luxuries you pack inside, none of them could hold a candle, in my humble opinion,  to that hurtling cat on the car’s hood. (Not to mention, I would forever wonder if I was correctly forming the plural!)

“When we win the lottery,” I’d tell my husband, “I want a Jaguar.”

“ Okay, pumpkin,” he’d respond, usually patting my head.

So why am I bringing this up now? Because the Jaguar, as I knew it, is no more!

I had my first hint just last night. My husband and I were watching TV, and, as usual, I was reading during the commercials, paying no attention to the screen. I heard my husband say something like, “Huh…look at the Jaguar. It looks like any other car.” His remark didn’t worry me. After all, vehicle styles change from year to year, and every once in a while the designers will humor their customers and release a “retro” model that looks just like the cars we love. As long as I can glance at the silhouette and see that exotic cat, ready to lead the way for the pack, all is well.

At least that’s what I thought, until today when I happened to see the commercial for myself. I sucked in a giant breath and rubbed my eyes.

“It’s gone!” I actually said it out loud. “The jaguar is gone.” No exotic silver feline on the hood. Nothing on the hood at all. Nothing to distinguish the car from any other car on the road.

Not believing what I was seeing, I logged into the Jaguar home page in search of the truth. “For a hundred thirty-two thousand dollars,” I muttered to myself, “I’d better damn well get a cat on my hood.”

No luck.

Next I tried building my own custom car, but could find NO OPTION to add that mighty symbol of wealth and stature. Finally I had to acknowledge the truth.

The cat had spent its ninth life

So there I sat, all those years later, my dream forever gone, not for lack of money, but because of some automotive executive’s hair-brained decision to eliminate the symbol that epitomized the brand.

Disgusted, and desperate, I then turned to “the ultimate authority” for answers—Google. ”What happened to the Jaguar hood ornament?” I typed in the search bar. I was hoping to find an on-line petition to resuscitate the cat, bring it back where it belonged. Instead, I found a page on eBay where I could, wonder of wonders, buy my own silver plastic Jaguar! For under $25! I love a good bargain!

So…anybody know how to install a hood ornament?

354 and Counting

Three hundred fifty-four.

If my math is correct, that’s the total number of days left before the end of the Mayan calendar, which some believe foretells the end of the world…at least as we know it.

This number isn’t something I’d ordinarily keep in my head, but my husband keeps repeating the count-down, using it for whatever purposes might suit our will of the moment.

Want to buy something we  can’t afford? Pull out the credit card! In a mere 354 days, we’ll be debt free!

Is that bag of chips calling our names? Dig in! The fat clogging our arteries will take far more than 354 days to completely close the pathways to our hearts.

Those aren’t real examples, of course. (Buying what we can’t afford and eating what we shouldn’t are pretty much everyday activities in my house!) And I don’t necessarily believe that a calendar created several thousand years ago (for its specific timekeeping purposes) is a prediction of the end of times.

Still, the whole discussion does make me stop and think. It does make me wonder…

What if the ancient Mayans were on to something? After all, they obviously had that logical thought process, that long-term-planning gene that I so woefully lack. What if we all only have 354 days to complete our bucket lists, to right the wrongs in our lives, to take a first steps toward goals that require journeys through uncomfortable, or downright scary, territories?  What if today is the first day not of the rest of our lives, but of the end of our lives? How creepy is that?

Suddenly the lyrics to country songs start filtering into my head. Songs like Live Like You Were Dying. Or I Hope You Dance, and My List. Each was a mega hit for the artist, its message speaking to millions of us, urging us to grab for what’s important, what’s special in life…before it’s too late. Literature is full of stories that tell us to make each day and each minute count, even (or especially) if it’s something as basic as finding joy wherever possible in all the good and bad of life that teems around us each day. (You know, that whole “stop to smell the roses” thing.)

But let’s be real. We’re busy. Our lives are stressful, filled to the brim with “stuff” that keeps our focus on the mundane, or the predictable.  Yet each minute, each situation, does provide us an opportunity if not to enjoy, at least to learn, about ourselves and others. Each moment does provide us a chance to love in some way. Each day is a chance to live in every sense of the word.

I realize those are easy words to embrace for someone, like me, who faces no major physical or emotional challenges. In fact, they might sound pretentious, maybe naïve, or downright cruel, to those who slog through each day in drudgery, who hunger for physical or spiritual nourishment, or who live in fear or pain. Or worse, to those who mourn. And those people would be right.

At this moment in time on the second day of January in 2012, my life is blessed. I have food, shelter, and a livelihood to sustain my physical needs. I am surrounded by a family/extended family who fill my emotional needs. But  I know that all of it could be gone by the time I post this message.

The thought fills me with a sense of urgency to heed the advice of the prophets and lyricists.  Suddenly I’m seeing the hours before me in a whole new light. Hurry! Hurry! I hear inside my head. Make this minute count. Make your time here on earth mean something, hopefully something good.

Last week I wrote about resolutions, how I don’t make them. This week’s epiphany hasn’t caused me to reconsider. (Yes, I hate planning just that much!) What it did, though, is force me to focus on what is important in my life. It made me think about what I might want to accomplish before December 21^st of this year.  It made me consider what brings me joy, and what I would miss if my ability to do it were taken away. It made me face the calendar not just as a tool for tracking time, but as a visual reminder (if I’m lucky!) of the hundreds of days, the thousands of minutes and probably zillions of seconds at my disposal at this moment in time.

So I dedicate the remainder of this year, however many seconds are left, to living with passion. That means locking myself in my figurative cocoon each day and transferring all the words and stories floating around in my head to “paper.” It means leaving the comfort of that cocoon from time to time to lose myself in a book and talk about it with others, to sing, to laugh and cry at TV and movies. In short, I’m dedicating my time to enjoying the blessings I’ve been given, each minute of each day.

I hope the same for each of you.

 

 

Resolutions schmesolutions

I never know in advance what I’m going to write about from week to week. Usually something has to strike me on a deep, emotional level for me to care enough to want to impose my thoughts on “the world.”  Some weeks the ideas jump at me from the front pages. Other weeks topics are sparked by a casual conversation. And some weeks, my idea bank is empty and I have to go trolling for topics.

Such was the case this week. My brain has been on overdrive with holiday promo events, plus working at my day job…not to mention all the Christmas frenzy faced by any modern American wife and mother. To put it lightly, I’m even more exhausted than usual, and as I contemplated the thought of Monday morning and the needs of my weekly blog, the reality that I had no topic in mind loomed larger than ever in the back of my mind.

I mentioned my dilemma at dinner with my family the other night, and as always, my older son wasn’t shy with his advice.

“It’s simple,” he said, as if it really were, “you’re heading into the new year. You have to write about New Year’s resolutions.”

I aborted an eye roll and stifled the huff of frustration building in my chest, merely saying (or whining), “I hate New Year’s resolutions!”

All three of my men threw up their hands and said, nearly in one voice, “That’s your topic!”

Really?, I thought to myself. Writing about what I hate to write? But the more I thought about it, the more I realized they might be on to something. I can’t be the only person in the world who turns a blind eye to the yearly rush to make lists of must-do self-improvement/fulfillment goals.

This could go back to my overall reluctance with goal-planning (see earlier blog for background). But I think it’s deeper than that with me. I think it goes back to a general mindset I adopted long ago of keeping expectations in check. I was never one of those kids to dream big. I focused more on making it through each day, as painlessly—and as far under the radar—as possible.  I learned early in life that if you don’t have big dreams, you don’t have big disappointments. Resolutions weren’t things I made, they were things I avoided.

So far not making yearly resolutions has worked out okay for me, and I’ve apparently lucked into a pretty nice life. I’ve been blessed with a sister who’s been a lifelong best friend, a loving and supporting husband (whom I’ve been with since age 19!), two sons who amaze me daily with their abilities (and I can’t wait to watch them as they continue to grow and mature), and close and wonderful friends who have stood by me to endure life’s trials and celebrate life’s joys.

So from my perspective, there’s no need to make an annual list of self-imposed rules, no “resolutions” that will somehow make my life better.

Even the word “resolve” implies a strength of purpose that fails me, drains me of energy. I resolve to….to what? I haven’t a clue. When I try to complete the sentence, negatives tumble out. I resolve to not eat that extra cookie after dinner. I resolve to not fritter away my time looking for on-line bargains. I resolve to not lose my temper when confronted with lousy drivers on the roadway who are keeping me from getting home after a long day of work.

I know, I know. I need to turn those negatives around, make them positives. But even (or especially) flipped, they feel like punishments.  Like…

• I resolve to choose healthy foods. (Ugh. That sounds pretentious and dull, and will probably taste the same.)
• I resolve to limit my on-line time. (What? I don’t deserve some fun?)
• I resolve to swallow that annoyance and patiently sit in a duck line of traffic while the drivers in front of me are too busy blabbing on their cell phones to pay attention to the fact that the light has turned green….

Aaahhh! It’s too much, I can’t do it. I can’t make that list of must-do chores or tasks (see, negative again!) that are supposed to somehow guide me through the coming year with purpose and meaning.

Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not saying I’ll live irresponsibly. I’m not saying I won’t make any plans or goals. And I’m certainly not saying I won’t dream of the future and hopeful successes. But what I am saying is that I don’t need a yearly list to live a life of purpose and meaning.  I’ll take my one-day-at-a-time approach.  I’ll try to field whatever curve-balls come my way with grace and compassion for others. I’ll try to view each day as a blessing from God, and I’ll try to wisely and generously use those gifts God has given me.

Now those are resolutions I can stand by.

So my hope for each of you is that, whether you make detailed resolutions or fly by the seat of your pants each day, you’ll find a path to peace and happiness in 2012. I hope you’ll find your trials easily overcome and your dreams within reach. Most of all, I hope you’ll be ringing in the new year surrounded by love and laughter.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Do the uncharitible deserve our charity?

When faith and hope fail, as they do sometimes, we must try charity, which is love in action. ~ Dinah Maria Mulock. *

I noticed that quote this morning on Twitter. Just one of dozens of messages downloading on my screen every minute or so, it caught my eye because charity has been on my mind lately. Specifically I’ve been debating whether people who are uncharitable deserve charity from others.

That dilemma doesn’t come in a vacuum, or for no reason. It’s actually the result of a recent, uh, discussion I had with my husband. I won’t go into details, but I was trying to be nice, to give the benefit of the doubt, to someone who was acting thoughtlessly. My husband wasn’t happy. He didn’t like that I was putting that thoughtless person’s needs ahead of ours, and, exasperated beyond patience, he said, “I really hate that about you!”

To be fair, his reaction wasn’t  because he’s an uncharitable person. I think it was because his first and foremost instinct is to protect me, our children, and our extended family. To him this other person was posing a “threat,” in a sense, and the logical reaction was to take care of me, and I frustrated him when I refused to follow his advice.

Still, his remark struck me, mostly because he rarely criticizes me. But how ironic to be criticized for trying to do something nice for someone else.

I’m not telling this story to ask for a pat on the back. If that were the case, I wouldn’t also divulge that I wasn’t happy about “being nice.” I did what I did grudgingly, not graciously. The other party was rude, didn’t “deserve” consideration in my not-so-humble opinion, but I gave it anyway, because that’s the way I was raised.

My mother was a single mom back in the days before women chose that lifestyle. We struggled financially and went without, frequently, but we got by. My mother was never bitter. No, she was always thankful for what she had. In truth, she used to drive me crazy! While I was whining about the fact that my friend Susan’s pile of Christmas loot could have filled a pickup truck, and my gifts could be counted on one hand, my mother reminded us to be thankful for the roof over our heads and the food in the fridge.

It wasn’t until I was much older that I came to understand that our ability to stay in our home, and my mother’s ability to put that food on the table, were due in large part to the charity of others, mostly friends from our church who saw a need, then filled it. So it was natural for Mom to teach me and my sister to be charitable to others. And that didn’t just mean charitable with money, or time. It meant to be charitable in spirit as well.

In fact, my mother could have been the poster child for turning the other cheek. When my sister and I fought, she said, “Sisters don’t fight.” It didn’t matter what caused the argument, who was right or who was wrong. The only thing that mattered to Mom was that sisters (family) should stick together. Sisters shouldn’t fight.  Her teachings must have hit home to us because we rarely did fight, and rarely do now. And when we do, we’re quick to apologize, quick to make up. Time is too short to spend it being angry with someone you love so much.

Actually, I think time is too short to spend it being angry, period. So when confronted with people who are rude, who do thoughtless things, yet who happen to need something from me, I’ll often hear my mother’s voice in my head, urging me to take the high road, to think that maybe there’s a reason that person is acting the way he/she is. I hear her telling me that maybe that person just received bad news, or maybe he/she doesn’t feel well. So I try to heed her voice, whether I want to or not.  And when I don’t, when I let that compulsion to ignore their needs win, I usually regret it.

Some say charity begins at home. Some also say God helps those who help themselves.  But I’ve been on the receiving end of charity too many times to know it’s not that simple. And I can only  hope that each time I meet someone who might be grouchy, might be rude or inconsiderate, that if/when that person needs something from me, I’ll hear Mom’s voice reminding me what she taught so many years ago, and that I’ll give the benefit of the doubt, whether it’s deserved or not.

* Dinah Maria Mulock. (n.d.). BrainyQuote.com. Retrieved December 19, 2011, from BrainyQuote.com Web site: http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/d/dinahmaria312049.html

 

 

My sister, the wine snob

My sister is a wine snob.

Before you take me to task for saying such an uncharitable thing in this season of love and peace, that’s her characterization, not mine. She revealed this to me only yesterday, at this “advanced” stage of our relationship, as we discussed my recent experience with the beverage.  Up to this point I knew that she enjoyed wine (as do I, on occasion), but I had no clue of the depth of her knowledge of (and passion for) a beverage that, at one time, was made by stomping  barefoot on a bunch of grapes!

You see, not only does my sister enjoy the occasional glass of wine, but she knows which type of glass to use for red, which type to use for white, and which for the sparkling variety.  (Meanwhile, poor fool I had no clue that there were special glasses for anything but champagne!) Naturally she’s also familiar with which type of wine to serve with what meal or event. Isn’t everyone?

Uh…no. Apparently not I at least! The episode which prompted this revelation was my first speaking engagement (well…it was more of a chat really) last week with a truly wonderful group of men and women who wanted to know about the life of a writer. That’s certainly a non-threatening event, but if you’ve read my first post on this blog, you know public speaking sparks terror in my heart. So when I was invited to meet with these folks, I decided I’d fortify myself with a rare glass of wine before speaking.  And I did.

You should know that my drinking wine is a rarity not for any moral or ethical reasons. No, usually I just don’t want to spend the calories on a drink! But when I do drink wine, I like it sweet. My usual selection, in fact, is a spritzer, usually home-made by my good friend in New Jersey with diet 7-Up and any old white wine. I like it. It’s sweet and fizzy and takes more than a half a glass to get me feeling stupid. But this was “my first speaking engagement” I was facing, and when my host graciously offered me a drink, I decided to order something a real grown-up would drink.

Still, when he asked what he could get me, my brain clutched for a moment while  I searched its recesses for a brand…a name…a type…anything that would give the appearance that I (a typical teetotaler) had some level of sophistication. Then something flashed in my memory banks, undoubtedly from some long-ago conversation with my sister, and I ordered a pinot grigio. And the several ounces I consumed before my “talk” did indeed help to relax me…to the point where I referred to my beloved romance novels as “crap” and one series I’m working on as “The Sex Series.”

Luckily for me, that was the worst of it.

In any event, when I described this event to my wise older sister, who is well aware that I rarely drink, she asked what my favorite white wine is. Somehow in the back of my mind I knew she wouldn’t consider  the “spritzer” as wine, so I said, “Zinfandel.” And it was at that point that she exposed to me the true nature of her snobbery.

“Oh, Leah,” she said in that no-nonsense tone she reserves for her husband when he’s trying to hurry her out the door, “Zinfandel isn’t a wine.”

I said (in complete ignorance), “It’s not?”

“No!” Our conversation paused while we both digested her statement. Then she said, “Well, it IS a wine, just not one you want to admit to drinking.”

“Why not?”

I can’t remember the full extent of her explanation, but she did say, “If you want a sweet white wine, drink a Riesling.”

Not only did I not know that Riesling was sweet, I didn’t even know it was a white wine.  In fact, I’m not even certain I knew it was wine at all. When I heard the word, my first thought wasn’t wine at all, it was cheese!

Anyway, it was at that point, while I pondered in the back of my mind whether Riesling was spelled with an I-E or an E-I, that I began to understand the depth of her wine snobbery. It shocked me, truly, not only because my sister is one of the most UN-snobby people ever born, but because of the uncharacteristic level of disdain I heard in her voice. Over wine of all things!

It’s not something I can relate to…being a teetotaler. I mean, I do admit to spending most of my time at the grocery store perusing the latest in tea flavors and blends.  I do have a special tea for breakfast, several at my desk at work (I drink three or four flavored selections during the day), and then a separate brand at night. And please don’t even show me a box of that horrid decaf swill. And I won’t even touch on the proper method for making a cup of tea. (Hint: It has nothing to do with a pouch of petrified tea leaves suspended on a string.)

No, I can’t hold my sister’s wine snobbery against her. After all, there but for the grace of God go I.

 

 

 

 

I think I’ve got it!

I think I know how Eliza Doolittle felt on that fateful day when Professor ‘Enry ‘Iggins finally taught her how to vocalize her H’s! It’s that thrill of discovery, that shock of pleasure over a found 5-dollar bill. It comes unexpectedly, often when least expected—that sensation of sheer joy and rightness with the moment.

Or maybe it’s more of a relief for me, relief that finally I’m starting to feel some of the Spirit of Christmas.

This is the second week of Advent. In Christian theology, we’re to use this time to continue preparing for the coming savior. That means repenting bad behavior or attitudes, and spreading the joyful news of God’s love in the form of a baby boy. Last week I fell short on both counts. Last week I was too embittered by my distaste of “the holidays” and the commercialization of what, to me, is a sacred event to even think about the true joy and the love that are being shared every day, despite the shopping frenzy taking place at the center of the secular universe.

Then something wonderful happened last week at work. It was Friday actually, the end of a long week of meetings to arrange, phone calls to answer, customer needs to attend to…things of that nature. And it was a complete surprise. Earlier in the week I had asked my boss if we were going to decorate for “the holidays.” I had mentioned it not necessarily because I wanted to cave into another meaningless (in my jaundiced view) holiday expectation, but because it was on a December to-do list I’d found in my files, left by my predecessor in the position. I read the list, sighed inwardly, and trudged into my boss’s office to ask if I should get started decorating.

She was agreeable, and I put in a work ticket to have our departmental tree brought up from its storage space somewhere in the bowels of the building. I tried not to roll my eyes while they put the metal-and-plastic thing together, tried not to cheer that I wasn’t burdened with stringing the lights—even though they’d purchased a couple brand-new (not-yet-tangled) sets for us. And I tried be patient while they unearthed  the rest of the decorations from their hiding place.

When they did, it sat there next to my desk, that carton filled with shiny orbs of red and gold, and some hand-made red-white-and-blue ornaments from the Centennial year, until my boss came in, noticed them, and suggested we start decorating. She’d even gone out of her way to buy some new decorations—glittering angels in red and snowflakes in white, gold tinsel and plaid ribbon—to add to the collection.

So the two of us began hanging the ornaments, enlisting the help of one co-worker to make a bow for the top of the tree, then another (taller) colleague to attach the bow and dress the top of the tree. About an hour later, after a few walks around the tree to make sure we hadn’t missed any spots, we declared ourselves done and stood back to admire our work.

I have to say, my heart did lighten some. Maybe at this stage of my life my neural processes are just coded to react with pleasure at the sight of a decorated Christmas tree. Or maybe it was the thought that my boss—whose day is so filled with meetings and commitments and solving one problem after another that she can barely breathe—took time from her schedule to help me decorate.

And she wasn’t done either. We’d been discussing for a couple days that we needed to make sure to include traditions of other religions and cultures in our “holiday” displays but have had some difficulty finding them in local stores. On her way into the office from an appointment on Friday she stopped at a party store and found Hanukkah decorations—an electric menorah, a “Happy Hanukkah” sign in glittery silver and blue, and some more “blingy” decorations to hang from the ceiling. We found a spot for the menorah, taped the sign up, and made arrangements for the facilities team to hang the rest from the ceiling.

It was toward the end of the day when I dusted my hands, literally, glad to be done with that chore, and prepared to store the boxes until after the new year. A coworker hurrying past my desk stopped short, turned around and asked, “You got a menorah?!” She moved closer, a big smile brightening her face as clearly as the lights on the tree.

I explained that our boss had picked it up and that we had wondered whether to keep it fully lit now or to wait to light the bulbs, one each day, at the beginning of Hanukkah. She offered several suggestions on how to handle, then smiled again, placed her hand on her heart and said, “In all the years I’ve been here, we’ve never had a menorah. I feel so included!”

And that’s when it struck me. That was my epiphany of Christmas spirit. Amidst all the craziness of the workday, that one small gesture had made a meaningful impact on one person’s life. And what better message to send during Advent than to care for each other at least as well as we care for ourselves, to honor others’ traditions and heritage, even as we spread the good news of ours, and to focus more on what binds us (“the holidays”) than what separates us.

Wishing all a week of joyous discoveries.