“To love someone is to strive to accept that person exactly the way he or she is.”

— Fred Rogers

When my daughter Emilee was in high school our relationship was strained, to put it mildly. My beloved husband, her dad, had recently died and I was the handy target for Emilee’s unresolved grief and anger. All of it.

One rainy November morning she texted me from school. “Corey found a kitten in road. Can I keep it?”

We already had two cats so I texted back “You can bring it home to care for till we find it a home but WE ARE NOT KEEPING IT!”

Everyone but me knew how that story was going to end.

The kitten was perhaps 4 weeks old. Its mother had been hit by a car. Emilee and I took the bitty baby to the vet who told us that it would cost $500 to try to save it but the kitten’s chance of survival was 50/50 given how young it was. I looked at my daughter who deliberately avoided eye contact. Knowing I would be forever labeled “the kitten killer” if I didn’t cooperate, I quietly handed over my credit card.

Thanks to Emilee’s care, the kitten survived. When she wasn’t in school Emilee spent all her time and energy nurturing the kitten, waking up throughout the night to feed her kitten formula and cuddling her constantly. Emilee named her Scamp. When Emilee sat down to study she would lift Scamp to her shoulder, tilting her head toward the kitten to keep it securely snuggled against her neck. This habit continued for the rest of the school year.

When Emilee left for college, Scamp became mine. She became my favorite cat of all time. Among her many endearing qualities, Scamp never forgot her association between feeling cared for and perching on a human shoulder. If she found me sitting down and wanted attention, she would leap onto the chair back and from there drape her ten-pound self across both my shoulders.

Like Scamp, people also have childhood memories they carry throughout their lifetimes. Even when we become adults, our memories can generate a particular emotional response to something that might seem unrelated. We are forever impacted, often subconsciously, by our early associations. Notably, this is true when it comes to feeling loved. Though we may not recall the exact moment, at some point our young minds perceived feeling loved when someone did or said a certain thing.

Here’s a personal example. When I was 11 I told my mom how I was afraid of the large dark crack in my bedroom ceiling. It was right over my bed. Every night I imagined spiders and other crawly things emerging from it. Mom truly heard me. Within a week she caulked the crack and repainted the patched area.

What stayed with me wasn’t the repaired ceiling. It was the realization that something important to me had become important to my mother. Without realizing it, I carried that message about love into adulthood: people who love you step in and take care of things for you. They also take action to try to help lessen your fears.

That understanding has stayed with me my entire life. Fortunately, it has also been refined.

My mother couldn’t fix every fear or insecurity I would ever face, but she taught me something important—that genuine love notices another person’s pain and responds in a way that attempts to make it less difficult. Easing, however, is not the same as erasing.

As I grew older, I discovered there are some cracks no parent, spouse, or friend can repair or erase. They are wounds that require ongoing attention, healing, and restoration. Yet there is something profoundly healing another person can still offer: proving to someone that they are fully known and fully accepted despite whatever fears make them feel unlovable. We usually do this through attentive, non-judgmental listening followed by our ongoing, loving presence.

It’s important to acknowledge, however, that this level of compassion is what we can give to a chosen few.

When we know someone well, we understand how their idiosyncrasies, fears, and imperfections came to be. This is why we view these traits with gentleness. We can see the child they once were—the one who needed physical and emotional protection—and recognize that they learned to soothe themselves in whatever ways they could.

Clearly we won’t know that story about everyone we meet. Most people will remain strangers to us. Yet remembering that every person has a backstory can soften our judgments and irritation. The impatient cashier, the moody coworker, the critical neighbor, the challenging relative—each is carrying a history we cannot see.

Very few people become who they are in order to make life difficult for someone else. Most are simply living out patterns that were formed before they understood they had a choice.

Scamp certainly was.

Long after she stopped needing bottle feedings or round-the-clock care, she still climbed onto a human shoulder. Somewhere in her feline mind, shoulders had become synonymous with safety.

As with Scamp, we carry those earliest experiences into adulthood, often without realizing they are shaping our expectations, our relationships, and even our understanding of ourselves.

Some of those associations are familiar to almost everyone. Many families express love through food, for example. Others are deeply personal, carrying meaning that makes perfect sense only when you know the story behind them. To an outsider, Scamp’s determination to perch on a shoulder may have seemed amusing. To Scamp, it meant safety.

Perhaps growing wiser is recognizing that every heart carries old associations—places where love was learned, fears were formed, and safety was found. The more we understand those hidden stories, the easier it becomes to accept one another with compassion.

One of the greatest gifts we can offer others is to become the kind of shoulder that Scamp sought—a place of refuge that meant safety, acceptance, and home.

This past Sunday, surrounded by flowers, laughter, and joy, we gathered for a bridal shower to celebrate my son and future daughter-in-law’s upcoming marriage. The room was filled with all the hopes that accompany a beginning—love, shared dreams, commitment, and the anticipation of years stretching out in front of this vibrant young couple.

On the drive home, while still in the glow of the beautiful shower, I learned devastating news affecting the family of a close friend. A young husband had drowned after only ten months of marriage. He was twenty-four years old. In an especially cruel twist, the accident occurred during a bachelor party, as many friends looked on helplessly. One of them attempted a rescue and drowned as well.

The following morning, I could not get this loss out of my mind. The news followed me as I walked into Zumba class.

Once the music started, my body responded almost without thought, moving to the rhythm along with everyone else. Yet I danced with tears in my eyes, thinking of a bride whose future had been shattered and of two young men who would never dance again. I recognized the privilege it was to be in class, to be able to have another ordinary day.

Spurred on by this realization, I began exaggerating the movements, adding hips and shoulders and flair. It was my way of honoring lives that had ended too soon.

I wanted my gratitude and compassion to move beyond mere feelings and find expression.

I danced because breath still filled my lungs and music still moved my body. I danced for the sheer joy of being alive, on behalf of all those who could no longer dance, and especially in memory of the two young men who had just died.

We do not mean to take life for granted. We get busy and forget our own mortality. We often live as though our years are unlimited, or at least as though we are guaranteed decades more.

Perhaps a wiser mindset would be to hold our days gently and treasure them fiercely. To recognize how transient and brief our lives truly are. To love extravagantly and forgive others their faults. To notice life’s absurdities and laugh often. To savor good food, meaningful conversation, beautiful sunsets, and the people gathered around our tables.

We do not need to live in a constant state of gratitude. Even if we wanted to, it is not in our nature.

Perhaps it is enough to pause occasionally and recognize the gift of ordinary days. Through them we get to experience the astonishing privilege of being alive.

“We see the world not as it is, but as we are.”

— Anaïs Nin

Tansy, the mama cat, lay on her side protectively cuddling four tiny kittens who were just a week old. They were so young that even their coloring—and whether they were male or female—could not yet be determined with certainty. As they grew, these details would become evident, as would their unique personalities. For the moment, however, the kittens appeared virtually identical.

That uniformity would not last long.

Anyone who has watched a litter of kittens mature knows how quickly individuality begins to emerge. One kitten becomes the ringleader, adventurous and bold, while another approaches what is unfamiliar with hesitant caution. One scrambles toward an outstretched hand demanding attention while her littermate prefers to hide behind mama, quietly deciding whether the situation feels safe. Even kittens born to the same parents and raised in the same environment can have remarkably different temperaments.

Human beings are this way too, though on a far more intricate scale.

At birth, babies may seem remarkably similar. Yet over time each develops into a unique individual, reflecting the astonishing variety of human abilities, gifts, disposition, and ways of being. Add to this family patterns, cultural expectations, education, life experience, and emotional scars, and the result is a person formed through countless visible and invisible factors.

We carry all of this with us every single day. As a result, we interpret events through a deeply personal lens. Often, we barely recognize all the forces within ourselves that influence how we act—and, without thinking, react. Equally important, we rarely see or appreciate what has shaped other people’s lenses. When another person’s perspective collides with our own, misunderstanding can quickly take root. Before long, filtered through our own experiences and blind spots, our minds begin to churn.

We assume motives.

We assign meaning.

We judge.

Then, when conflict arises, we defend our position.

I have certainly seen this pattern at work in my own life.

A recent clash with someone in my inner circle gave me reason to think more deeply about conflict.

Suffice it to say that the ensuing mutual hurt feelings ruined the evening in question in addition to casting a pall over the days that followed. I replayed the interaction repeatedly in my mind—who said what, who failed to say what, who should have handled things differently.

At first, my own perspective felt entirely justified.

Usually that is how conflict works.

And yet, the more I consider conflicts I’ve experienced, the more I recognize that the other person was likely viewing the situation through an internal logic that felt just as reasonable to them as mine did to me.

That realization did not erase the hurt.

But it softened something.

It reminded me how easy it is to reduce another person to a single act or omission rather than remembering the complicated individual behind it.

If we pause long enough to reflect, we may begin to understand that, given the entirety of a person’s experiences and history, their actions likely seemed reasonable to them. That does not mean we must agree with their conclusions, excuse harmful behavior, or pretend the pain did not matter. But it does create space for humility. Perhaps they were not their best selves at that moment. Perhaps neither were we.

Sometimes that recognition opens the door to apology, healing, and reconciliation.

Sometimes it does not.

Not every conflict resolves neatly. Forgiveness and reconciliation, after all, are not always the same thing.

Forgiveness may simply mean releasing our desire to continually rehearse the offense or define another person solely by the wound they caused. Reconciliation, however, requires something more—mutual trust, safety, honesty, and meaningful change where change is needed. Not every relationship can or should return to what it once was.

Some trust, once broken, can only be rebuilt slowly over time through consistent actions rather than words alone. And sometimes, despite our best efforts, reconciliation never fully occurs.

There may be people with whom I will never again share the same closeness, even though I have forgiven them.

Still, choosing not to reconcile does not require us to lose sight of another person’s humanity.

There is wisdom in acknowledging that every person we encounter carries an inner world we cannot fully see.

Like Tansy’s kittens, babies who may once have appeared similar on the surface grow into vastly different people, their lives shaped by genetics, experience, hardship, love, and countless unseen influences. No two move through the world in exactly the same way.

Tansy’s kittens remind me that individuality reveals itself slowly. What first appeared nearly identical gradually became wonderfully distinct. Human beings are no different. Most cannot be fully understood in a single interaction, a difficult season, or even a painful disagreement.

We are all more complicated than we first appear.

Perhaps one of the greatest acts of maturity is recognizing how limited our own understanding can be—and how much we all need grace.

In doing so, we leave room for the complexity and humanity within one another.

Most mornings I put on makeup before heading out for the day, and my cat Scamp likes to participate.

She jumps onto the bathroom counter and wedges herself between me and the mirror just as I lean in to apply mascara. She bats at the blush brush while I tap it against my cheek, sits squarely on the eyeshadow palette, or swipes my lipstick onto the floor with one deliberate paw. Her timing is impeccable.

She is not helping, of course.

But because I love her, I find her interruptions amusing. Even as she slows me down, she makes me laugh.

I have come to recognize how often I’m much more patient with the interruptions of a beloved cat than with the interruptions of people.

By nature, I like order. My temperament prefers to begin a task, work steadily through it, and complete it without diversion. I like efficiency. I like momentum. I like checking things off a list.

What I do not always like is being interrupted by someone else’s needs.

And yet so much of love seems to happen there.

Real love often asks us to pause. To look up. To set aside our immediate agenda for the sake of another person. These moments rarely arrive at convenient times.

For me, the interruption may come in the form of a question asked when I’m trying to concentrate on something else, a request for help just as I was ready to sit down, or a phone call that comes as I’m rushing out the door. The common theme is that someone needs my attention when I feel least inclined to give it.

Each interruption gives me a choice in how I will respond. Will I cling to my own plans, or will I set them aside long enough to offer kindness, patience, or generosity? In those moments, I am being invited to choose something better than efficiency: relationship over order, presence over productivity, and grace over irritation.

I do not always do this well.

Sometimes my outward response is polite while inwardly I am resisting and frustrated. Sometimes my tone reveals that I may be physically present but not especially gracious. Such moments remind me how much I still need to grow in patience, mercy, and love.

Scamp never intended to teach me any of this. She only wanted to be near me, to insert herself into my little morning routine. In her own feline way she was demonstrating her love.

Perhaps that is the quiet lesson.

Interruptions are not always obstacles to the day we intended for ourselves. Sometimes they are the very place where love asks to be practiced. The condition of our hearts is often revealed not in grand moments, but in how we respond to small interruptions.

Dear God, please help me to be as gracious with the interruptions of others as I am with the interruptions of my cat.

“Life is what happens to us while we are making other plans.”

— Allen Saunders [later popularized by John Lennon].

Illustration “The Underdog” created by Seth Pitt, available at https://theartofseth.com

Certain good things can go a long way even in tiny amounts.. Here’s supporting evidence:

The unaided human eye can detect a single candle flame 1.6 miles away on a dark night according to physicists at Texas A&M.

When salting foods, cooking guidelines suggest starting at just 1% of the food’s weight.

Both a load of laundry and an adult body require only 1-2 tablespoons of liquid soap to get the job done (using too much can leave residue on fabrics or dry out skin).

The human nose can perceive vanilla in concentrations as low as 100 parts per billion.

Applying this principle offers potential to enhance everyday life. Specifically, if I choose to act in small ways that reflect love, patience, or kindness toward those around me, I can positively impact my community and relationships by fostering goodwill, decency, and grace. This is how I want to show up in life–not just to get through each day but to live it with the intention of making a positive difference. To put it another way, it’s been said that each of us is either a fountain or a drain. To be a fountain I don't have to use a lot of my resources, but I do need to make a deliberate effort.

Here’s a way to implement this on a practical level. Most of us know someone going through a messy or difficult situation that is chronic, complicated, and frankly soul-depleting. We wish we could fix whatever is hurt or broken, yet the Herculean task is beyond our capacity. We feel powerless. The little we can offer seems futile so we sigh and do nothing. While our inactivity may nag our conscience, we assure ourselves that the matter is something we cannot change.

This conclusion isn’t actually true. While the outcome might be beyond what we can change, the choice to do a small something is well within our control and capabilities. Like salt and light, our little bits of kindness can be equally powerful. A smile, a thoughtful word, or a small gesture can profoundly impact those around us, providing a ripple effect of positive influence not only to the recipient, but also to witnesses. Not for nothing Jewish law states that a person who visits the sick takes away 1/60 of their pain. This is one way of appreciating that our role isn’t to remedy the situation, but simply to offer what we have. Whether we visit, listen without judgement, offer a warm drink, forward an appropriate poem or inspirational quote, get groceries, walk the dog, or drop off a treat, the important thing is that by doing any one of these acts, the person in pain can know that they are not alone.

Feeling alone and isolated is what transforms human suffering into personal misery. Attending to the aloneness component of anyone’s trial, in however small a way, might be the very lifeline that helps them endure. Not only that but in taking positive action of any sort we initiate a chain reaction of moral beauty that both spreads and echoes. To witness someone acting kindly can be inspirational, while acting kindly yourself is contagious and re-energizing. Our ability to demonstrate love to others and to shine our light into their lives is one measure of our own aliveness to the best in humanity. Who doesn’t want that?

(check out Seth Pitt’s website to see his full whimsical collection entitled Creatures of the Heart: https://theartofseth.com )

I am leaning into new beginnings. Swimming only the known waters for the rest of my days is not for me. Though now in my seventh decade, I still want to attempt novel experiences. To do this requires stretching beyond what is familiar. One challenge, however, is that effective stretching only occurs if you go a little beyond what feels comfortable. Like most people, I certainly don’t enjoy discomfort. Yet I tolerate it when the end result is something I value. For me, I honor the memory of my first husband Mark through taking actions that reflect being fully alive. He was someone who lived with gusto. Trying new things is my way to emulate his spirit.

I put this thinking to the test recently in deciding to try two activities I have never done before: Zumba class and handbell choir. Even though I deliberately chose these activities and was excited to start learning them, after the first classes were over I was reminded of one of the downsides of beginner status—chiefly the self-conscious feeling of being in a group where I don’t know what I’m doing.

It was one thing when I was in grade school and everyone else was also learning various skills for the first time. Now I find myself learning in the company of other adults who know how to do what I’m trying to do and have in fact been practicing it for years. Their proficiency and my lack thereof makes me aware of the difference between us. If I want to move out of the beginner zone, I have to persevere through the embarrassment of making public mistakes and feeling both incompetent and awkward.

Taking Zumba classes is a typical example. The idea of combining physical exercise with moving to music is clearly a thing designed to be fun and joyful. It certainly looked that way when I saw others doing it. Without hesitation I committed to trying a series of local Zumba classes. After a few times let me just say this– one day this might actually be joyful for me. That day, however, is clearly down the road. For now I’m choosing to press on despite going through a variety of emotions along the lines of discouragement and frustration.

The problem is that following a Zumba instructor is a lot harder than it looks or I thought it would be. On top of that, some instructors put more effort into actually teaching the steps. Others don’t seem to think that’s necessary, rightly assuming that most of the class has been attending for years and already have the basic routines memorized. Why cater to the only beginner in the class?

The instructor leads us from a small, elevated platform. Whatever she does, we are to do as well, except in reverse. When she moves her right foot, we move our left and so on. It’s supposed to be easier to follow the mirror image. It probably is but I’m still in the struggling stage. For one thing, there’s a lot of other sensory input competing for attention: pulsing lights, throbbing music, and other dancers moving within a few feet of me, all of whom know these steps. For another, my brain just can’t keep up. The poor little thing tries its best to watch the movements I’m seeing, translate them to patterns, then immediately tell my feet what to do, but there is an unfortunate delay in relaying and transmitting all these signals. Actually it’s a marvel that I’m able to follow along at all.

The absolute concentration required is exhausting to sustain. No wonder I keep checking the clock to see how much time is left till the ordeal is over. At some point during each song I’m so lost that I just give up and simply sway to the music till the dance circles back to some part I’m capable of performing. This is humbling rather than joyful. As for the hand motions, don’t ask. I’ve decided to mostly ignore them for now. I know my limits. If I eventually learn the footsteps, then I’ll see about adding arms and hands to the project. My intention is to show up for class faithfully till summer and then re-evaluate. For now, I’m persevering with hope that I will get better.

My handbell experience, however, rang a different story. Last Fall our church bulletin included a notice that anyone interested in the handbell choir should contact the director, Peter. I love listening to handbells and thought it would be wonderful to be part of the group that created this lovely sound. I sent Peter an email. While admitting the inability to read music I said I could count. In my mind was the naive idea that the music we’d ring would be similar to what was in the pew hymnal –mostly straightforward quarter notes played one at a time. Peter’s reply was brief. He probably didn’t give it much thought. Either that or he was desperate for more ringers. He said, “Fine. Practice is on Thursday nights at 6:30. See you then.”

The gap between my expectation and what occurred during that first practice is comical. Certainly it would be comical if it happened to someone else. One of my shortcomings is only seeing the humor after a situation I’m involved in has long passed.

The night of my first practice I found the basement choir room after a bit of a search. By then most of the other choir members were already set up. Peter welcomed me, handed me two bells, F3 and G3, then placed me in the back row beside a man named Jeff. Next he opened a notebook containing the complicated score we were to do that night and proceeded to compress an hour’s explanation of how to read music into two minutes. Jeff watched my eyes widen and glaze over in astonished disbelief to think anyone could absorb all that. After Peter stepped away Jeff leaned close to whisper, “Ignore everything he just said.” This was a huge relief to put it mildly.

Turns out that Jeff was a school music teacher. He quickly drew out a chart showing me how to distinguish quarter notes from wholes, halves, eighths, and sixteenths. “Just start there,” he advised. He also helped me go through the sheet music to circle in pencil the notes I was to ring. Then the practice started and we were off.

Like in zumba, I quickly got lost. Counting doesn’t help if you are unable to assign the correct values to the symbols on the page. There were all different kinds of notes, measures, Italian words, and dots on the score, each of which meant something to everyone else but were hieroglyphics to me. Then there’s the ringing technique. Getting the bell to ring at the right time for the correct duration requires some how-to. I got a 15 second demonstration that the markings on the handle indicated the bell’s orientation, that ringing involved a sweeping-away-from-the-body motion, and that silencing the ring could be done in several ways.

Fortunately the G3 and F3 bells were not called upon often. Yet I wanted to do my bit and do it correctly. Let’s just say that after the first practice Peter decided that I should work on holding and ringing a single bell, rather than two. With the challenge now halved, I persisted. After five practices we discussed whether I might want to start with being part of the children’s handbell choir. He said that “children” was loosely defined. Yes, in hindsight I definitely should have begun there because the music is significantly easier and the emphasis is on teaching handbells. By then, however, my seasonal travel plans had begun to overlap with practice. Since learning requires consistent effort and I’d be away a lot on practice nights, it made more sense to step away from handbells altogether. [That’s a nice way of saying that I called it quits.]

I still have Zumba.

Sometimes that’s just how it goes. We try things to see whether we like them and the answer is not always a yes. The yes was in making the effort. In the end I’ve taken a shot at two new experiences so my underlying purpose was met regardless of the outcome. Pressing on despite feeling awkward and embarrassed is tolerable because I’m doing it for another.

Mark died at age 47, nineteen years ago today. Since his life was cut short, I’m choosing to explore life’s possibilities for the both of us. I want my eyes, heart ,and soul to drink in beauty, goodness, and laughter. I want to reflect back to the world a spirit of compassion, generosity, service to others, and love. These qualities attest to who Mark was as a person so I want them to be my hallmarks as well. As I look for ways to grow, the uncomfortable stretching and reaching required is my way to honor his legacy, to demonstrate his impact on my life, and to show how much he is still loved.

When my daughter got married a few weeks ago, I was surprised to discover that there was emotional heft to being the mother-of-the-bride (MOB). The stereotypical role centers on a flurry of activity related to planning, shopping, beauty treatments, and social obligations. As the wedding date approached, however, I thought a great deal about the implications of her marriage.

The boundaries of my family’s relationships were about to be remade. A seismic shift in roles would be one of the realities. Thereafter, her groom would be the one helping her to become her fullest and truest self. My daughter’s principle focus would now officially belong to another. A wedding is the point where all these transitions legally and symbolically occur. Also, as a result of the marriage, my mother love was undergoing a metamorphosis that you don’t hear much about. What follows is my attempt to share what one MOB thought and felt on the days surrounding her daughter’s nuptials.

Prologue: Thursday, October 16, 2025

The day before the wedding I had a lot on my mind. Thinking through what needed to be accomplished in the time allotted required all my focus. My husband, the bride’s step-father, made the well-intentioned mistake of repeatedly asking me, “What can I do to help?” He should have known better. As the bride once remarked about the way to handle me when I’m in a mood, “the best strategy is to avoid eye contact, put your head down, and start cleaning something.” He’d forgotten the lesson.

Rather than respond unkindly I clenched my jaw and forced myself to be silent. “You seem stressed,” my husband observed. While true, unsolicited comments like this should be avoided. They feel critical, definitely not what’s needed. If anyone has ever told you to “calm down” when you’re upset, you know what I mean.

Weddings sometimes bring out the worst in people. Perhaps it has something to do with all the acute emotions and high expectations that surround such a momentous event. Naturally I wanted my daughter’s celebration to be everything she imagined. Attempting to make it so had taken a lot of my energy and resources. I knew I ought to have a big-picture perspective on the love, the joy, and the blessings of this long-awaited day, but, instead found myself caught up in the multitude of tasks on my to-do list.

Yes I was stressed. I was also using busyness to distract myself from facing a huge sadness. My first husband, the bride’s father, hadn’t lived to see our daughter marry. Even though it had been eighteen years, the wedding had caused me to revisit my anger at the universe over his death. As a result, my quills were up and ready to take aim at whatever or whomever crossed my path. With hasty apologies to my husband, I fled to the car. The long drive to Philadelphia would allow my prickliness ample time to dissipate.

Part One

Friday October 17, 2025: the Wedding

Mere moments after awakening I was alert and energized. The tiny wings of my emotions fluttered excitedly. “Today is Daughter’s wedding day!” I set myself to showering and dressing with minimal fuss, then collected my dress and make-up to take to the bridal suite along with Daughter’s dress, veil, and shoes. The next 12 hours would be a microcosm of motherhood: moms always step aside to put their child’s happiness first, regardless of the child’s age.

The getting-ready process was in full swing when I arrived. Hair and make-up artists were already set up in the suite’s cozy sitting room. Every flat surface was covered with the tools of their trades. Daughter was seated on a stool, placed by the window to take advantage of the natural light. Gentle morning sunbeams streamed in, illuminating her face and assuring us of a clear autumn day. She glanced my way with a welcoming smile then turned back to allow the artists to continue. As her make-up was carefully selected from a stock worthy of a Hollywood set, I sat cross-legged on the sofa and did my own. Honestly, who cared what I looked like. Rightfully, all eyes would be on the bride.

Eventually it was time to help Daughter into her dress. After lifting it off the hanger, the satiny material gathered over my arms, I stooped to the floor. Holding onto a friend for balance, Daughter stepped in. I pulled the bodice up, closed the small zippered section, then tied the back sash. Once the dress was fully on, Daughter took a step forward then turned to face me.

Had this been a movie, I would have yelled “Cut!” right there. Daughter’s exquisite beauty caused me to draw in a sharp breath– holding that air prisoner as if by doing so I could force time to remain in place a little longer. Our eyes met and in that nanosecond a silent conversation transpired:

“Mama, am I beautiful?”

“Yes, Precious One. You are.”

As we faced each other, I was mindful of the interconnected totality of our lives, the highlight reel in my mind of all that had led her to being who she was.

I knew that in the months and years ahead I would sift and re-sift through the photographs of this exact moment, smiling once again while holding back tears every single time. She is and will always be a tracing on my heart, a source of pride, a reason to change my plans and adopt new ones, and along with her brother and sister, one of my magnum opuses. If I had done nothing else with my life other than be their mom, that alone would be sufficient.

We pinned the white veil into her golden hair, gathered her things, and were escorted out of the hotel. Across the street was a site the photographer had rightly deemed the picture perfect setting for the Groom to get a “first look” at his bride. Since I was carrying the bridal train and scanning the sidewalk for obstacles, it wasn’t until Daughter stopped walking that I actually looked up and realized that we were at the foot of an impressive set of white marble steps leading to a portico edged with tall marble columns. Through the serendipity of this location, the universe was sending a message of love’s continuity.

In front of us stood the iconic building known as the Second Bank of the United States. Unbeknownst to anyone else present, Daughter’s father and I had stood at this very place having our own wedding photographs taken thirty-nine years earlier. As Groom waited patiently on the steps with his back to us, time folded upon itself to join my old memories with the ones just now being made.

It felt like today my heart would be standing on a pier waving bon voyage to the newlyweds– hoping their trip would be wonderful and filled with adventures, while simultaneously knowing I didn’t have a ticket. Of course, it’s obvious that a wedding is both a joining together and at the same time a significant separation. When an adult child marries, she forms a new family with her husband. In order for the new couple to “cleave” each must “leave” their family of origin. I was keenly attuned to this new reality. Loving my daughter and her new husband meant recognizing that from this day forward, their marital relationship needed to be prioritized over every other relationship.

I left the bridal couple to the photographer and walked across the park to the restaurant where the wedding was to be held. The next three hours were a kaleidoscope of beauty and emotion. The wedding was quiet, small, elegant, and intimate– all the elements that Daughter had wanted. She floated throughout the room in a bubble filled with utter joy. My own was a result of seeing hers.

Part Two

Saturday, October 18, 2025: The Reception

When Daughter knew that marriage was highly probable, we talked about the sort of wedding she had in mind. As an introvert uncomfortable being center stage, Daughter was not going to be the typical bride. Fuss and attention on her would be too much. She said she’d be happy with an elopement. I called “unfair.” Given all that I had invested in her, I deserved to see her get married. We laughed together, but she knew my comment was only slightly in jest. Fortunately, Groom-to Be was my staunch ally. Having attended numerous friends’ weddings, he and Daughter discussed their own even before they were actually engaged. He envisioned a big party with friends and family gathered around them to celebrate. I knew I liked him.

Engagement ensued and wedding plans were required. The couple wanted to be married later that year. Compromise on the particulars meant a very small, non-traditional wedding ceremony with only closest family and a friend or two. No bridesmaids. No church. The next day, a reception.

But, where to hold it?

Daughter liked BP Farm, a lovely Hamptons-like venue near our home in Cape May. It wasn’t available. With just six months to plan, I remembered a farm owned by a Cape May artist named Stan Sperlak. His property bordered the county’s western marshlands, had a restored barn where he held concerts, and a sculpture garden with walking trails. As it turned out, he was just starting to rent the site for parties and weddings. For a mere $100 deposit he would hold an October date for us. I conveyed the details to Daughter and she agreed that Sperlak’s farm sounded fine. Since she and Groom-to-Be were living in New Mexico and time wouldn’t wait, they bravely decided to trust my choice. They would see the venue for the first time the day of the reception.

I had visited Stan’s property on several previous occasions and thought it one-of-a-kind in all the best ways possible. After navigating the long, packed dirt driveway, one emerges into acres of open space stretching to the river on the horizon. Stan was a landscape architect as well as an artist. He had orchestrated the creation of a physical environment that evoked harmony as it provoked delight. Quirky sculptures were attached to the barn and hidden among the walking paths that radiating from the barn’s deck. Organic materials combined with metal, glass, and concrete, created one surprise sculpture after another waiting to be discovered. I felt as though this venue was a unique find that I wanted to share with Daughter and Groom-to-Be as well as with each of the guests. I hoped everyone would love and appreciate it as much as I did, but I especially wanted Daughter to feel this way.

The morning of the reception we woke up in our Philadelphia hotel overlooking Independence Mall. Daughter wanted to get to the reception site by 1 PM, which should not have been a problem as the drive was only 50 miles. A few complications ensued. The Philadelphia rendition of the national “NO KINGS” protest caused the shutdown of several streets by the hotel. Getting out of the city took ninety minutes rather than five. By the time we were on our way, Daughter was gritting her teeth, impervious to my uncertain reassurances that we would arrive on schedule. Her tension was contagious so we drove in relative silence as I willed the miles to pass.

When at last I turned into Sperlak’s driveway, the clock read 12:56 PM. We’d made it. A tongue-in-cheek sign tacked to a tree read: “Trespassers will be shot. Survivors will be shot again.” Not your typical welcome announcement from an artist. Daughter’s anxiety morphed into burgeoning curiosity. What sort of place was this?

After carefully navigating the winding dirt road, I pulled the car to a stop near the barn. Daughter got out to explore while I unloaded her dress and headed for the designated changing area in the loft. Stepping through the open barn doors I felt instant peace. The structure was quiet, airy, light filled and inspiring. Fall flowers spilled out of oversized planters by every entryway. Rows of wine glasses sparkled on a makeshift bar sitting next to the piano and the rented tent was just visible beyond the back deck. Framed paintings decorated the walls. Clearly this was the space of a creative. Even the climate was cooperating to make sure nothing detracted from the storybook day. A smiling assistant appeared as if on cue to lead me toward the loft stairs while asking if I’d like a drink. Yes. Definitely.

When Daughter joined me upstairs, ready to put on her bridal gown for the second and last time, her cheeks were rosy from the soft sea breeze that swept in from the nearby coast. She and Groom had briefly strolled the grounds. I raised my eyebrows in question. Thankfully, she nodded with a pleased look. They both agreed that the venue was ideal, exactly the outcome I’d wanted. All was perfect.

At the appointed time, guests began arriving. Many had traveled across the country just to be present for the occasion. I got to connect faces to the friends Daughter had spoken of through the years. Seeing my own coterie of eight provided its own, more than ample reason to celebrate. Cocktail hour blended into sunset that faded into dinner that segued into dancing. Along the way some played mini-golf, others corn-hole, and others went to peruse Stan’s pastels or enjoy the sculptures on the walking trails.

“The Mud Incident” occurred near sunset when the bridal couple stole away to have pictures taken on the low boardwalk by the marsh. The photographer suggested that Groom lift Daughter by the waist. When he did, he thought to improvise a little twirl. In hindsight, it was probably not a good off-script move. He was closer to the boardwalk’s edge than he realized, lost his balance, and fell, causing them both to fall into the marsh mud. No one was hurt and Daughter got up laughing despite a large black mudprint on her bridal gown where her knee had landed.

Many a bride would have had a meltdown. Not this one. She assured Groom it wasn’t a big deal, giving me one more reason to be proud of her. Several of us were hurriedly called to go meet Daughter in the barn’s washroom, the bridal trauma center. Once there, we scraped the worst of the muck off her dress. The dark stain, however, wouldn’t come out. In a master stroke of improvisation Daughter’s friend noticed that the stain was situated near the dress’s front slit. She turned the dirty fabric under and pinned it back. Voila! Problem solved. Newly equipped with an amusing wedding story to tell, Bride and Groom rejoined the party.

From that time forward, leaving the dance floor was simply not an option. The DJ caught the energy and amplified it. The last hour melted away as we danced and danced. The final song was Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody.” It seemed an odd choice but everyone embraced it, dramatically pantomiming the lyrics right up until the final crescendo. As a group we sang Freddy Mercury’s words together, many of us holding air microphones to our lips, “Nothing really matters, anyone can see, nothing really matters to me.”

It was evident that no one believed this as we swayed shoulder to shoulder in a big circle around the wedding couple, every one of us wearing a huge smile. In fact, at that moment we knew that the very opposite was true: everything and everyone did matter. When the music ended, we all clapped and hugged, unified in song, the shared silliness, the fun we’d had, and our love for this bride and groom.

Postscript: Final Observations

Walking to the car under a canopy of stars I felt the reverberations of this most wonderful day settle softly about me.

What I noticed next was mystical, causing me to pause while I turned to look back over the meadow, the barn, and the tent. As if the day would not be complete without a last message from heaven itself, I sensed the very real, hovering presence of those I loved who had passed on. Their spirits were somehow nearby, pressing against the fabric of time that stood between us.

Right then, in that space on that day, the barrier between this world and the next was permeable. Heaven itself was leaking through. It felt like ecstasy to know, however briefly, a remarkable joy so big and wide and all encompassing that there was barely enough room for me to breathe. In the next moment, however, I also realized a limiting truth. My soul was not yet fit for the staggering weight of full-on heaven’s exquisite happiness. It was too much. I would need a radical transformation to be able to contain all that joy and all that love. Until then this small taste was all I could absorb. I stood there transfixed a few moments longer before turning away toward the car.

This experience cast a glow that remained for a week following the wedding celebration. After it dimmed, ordinary existence resumed again with one notable difference. I was still aware that I’d received a singular gift, a flash of insight coupled with a transient feeling of utter joy. No, I could not hold on to it. Yet even though I may not feel heaven right beside me, I’m more aware of its claim on my soul. One day I will be pulled over that threshold forever. In the meantime, the memory of this transcendent experience continues to be illuminating. Thinking about that night inspires me to be conscious of a bigger reality. Love surrounds me even when I’m oblivious. Yet it’s when I am deliberately aware of love’s presence that I am compelled to walk in the way of peace and forgiveness, the way of beauty and creativity, and the way of compassion and mercy.

This is my wedding wish for my daughter and new son-in-law. May you be aware that love surrounds you always.

It doesn’t surprise me that Albert Einstein came up with the theory of relativity while riding his bicycle. Getting on a bike is a charming way to process thoughts, add delight to the day, or lift a dark mood. Designed to enable us to go farther without horse or motor, the bicycle is a human-propelled tool of self-reliance.

Even kids understand this. I still remember having the training wheels taken off my first two wheeler. My dad used a monkey wrench to loosen the bolts and with a clang the little steel arms fell to the sidewalk. Once I got on he jogged beside me holding the seat and handlebars to keep me steady. Then, with a powerful push he launched me into independence.

I pedaled like mad to stay upright. Twenty feet later I knew I wouldn’t fall. My five-year old heart could have burst with joy. Then, almost immediately, an even bigger realization hit me– this bicycle would open the door to a new kind of freedom. Oh the places I’d go! Even today, decades later, I feel a hint of that same exhilaration when clipping into the pedals to begin a ride.

I’m a bike person in the same way that some folks always have a dog and think of themselves as “dog people.” Bicycling has become part of my essential nature over the course of the years. I enjoy it when I’m happy and need its healing power when something has me wound up. Time in the saddle allows me to sylleptically change gears, acting as a kind of pressure release valve. Therefore it came as no surprise that I used bicycle therapy to deal with an issue that has recently been demanding a lot of emotional energy.

An upcoming special occasion triggered intense feelings related to a past loss. On a particular day last week this soul churning entered into overdrive. Deciding to take action, I went out and did what needed to be done. I bought myself a new bike. Not just any bike either. It’s a carbon fiber Roubaix model SL8 by Specialized with a Shimano component drive train, endurance geometry, automatic shifters, and lots of other technical stuff I frankly don’t understand. What I do know is that the bike’s frame is the color of a cloudless September sky. It speaks to me of possibilities and of hope. I needed both.

My existing bike will be entering a well-deserved forced retirement. I’d taken it in for a tune-up months ago because of a growing assortment of squeaks and rattles. The mechanic suggested replacement and warned me that safety was a consideration. Several parts needed to be replaced, and some were no longer available as the bike was close to twenty years old. The verdict was justified but nonetheless unexpected.

The timing wasn’t ideal. The type of bike I ride is a significant splurge. Yet already on the docket were a much needed home renovation project, a tuition payment, and two weddings. I wrestled for several months with whether to make the purchase, always pushing it off when something else demanded priority. The tipping point came after I suffered through a cascading series of what might be called social misperceptions. These occurred all in the space of a week and all related to the previously mentioned special occasion, my daughter’s upcoming wedding.

My son tried to soothe me when I shared the details. “A wedding is all about the bride and groom and it’s their relationships that are the most important consideration,” he said. As the mother of a bride, I can say from experience that this isn’t completely true. It’s especially not true when the MOB or MOG is a widow, like me. Weddings elicit a tapestry of emotions. In our family’s case, the joy of seeing my daughter marry is necessarily correlated with remembering that her father Mark won’t get to be there. Distress over this fact has already paid several visits, but wedding grief is not a thing most people think about or want to acknowledge.

Part of my strategy to quell eruptions of sadness on the big day were the handful of close friends I’d asked to surround me. Since the wedding was small, intimate, and casual I extended only eight invitations at the beginning of the summer. Now, with the wedding just a month away, only two have committed to being there.

For several nights I thought about this and the reasons given. My mind was stuck in a perpetual loop while I stared at the ceiling. Peace and sleep eluded me. In each instance, the math of others’ decision making was complicated by their own constraints and how they viewed competing commitments.

For me though, this event isn’t merely a wedding. It’s an opportunity for my three adult kids and I (as well as those who love us) to recognize that we four have literally walked through the valley of the shadow of death. In our own way, each of us has emerged to climb mountains and now our little foursome has something joyful to celebrate. And yet, while we share in the general happiness of the occasion, we will also silently acknowledge something else: how proud Mark would have been to see our daughter get married and how we still miss him despite all the years’ passage.

In hindsight I realize that I didn’t explain my feelings to the eight invitees. How could they know that their individual presence was a lot more significant to me than they probably realized. Those who had known my husband Mark may not have considered that I thought of them as standing in for him and honoring the friendship they had with him. In my mind they were to act as living lights to bring the warmth of his memory to the wedding. The remaining friends I’d invited were equally important. They knew our story, had seen us rebound, and understood the contrast between our family’s before and its after. Their presence was to act as both glitter and glue, a magical combination that invariably enhances whatever it touches.

I counted on those eight friends showing up for me as a buttress against the very real difficulty of facing what will be an exquisitely emotional day. When my daughter called to tell me that just two had RSVP’d “yes,” I had heart palpitations processing how this could have happened.

Which brings me back to the new bicycle.

Experience has taught me that one way to deal with deep discouragement is to take action, especially action unrelated to the discouraging thing. Through carrying out tangible steps to pursue the chosen action, positive endorphins are then generated. The result helps put you in a better mood. Using this same reasoning, a friend tells me she washes and folds towels when life gets her down. I’m not a towel-folder, but I understand her thinking.

As I considered potential actions to exorcise wedding grief and feeling disheartened, I thought about my old bicycle. Replacing this worn-out object might begin to place my heart back on healthier emotional terrain. Like life, bicycling requires both balance and perseverance. To get where you want to go you must pedal continuously and consistently. The question becomes how hard are you willing to work when the terrain becomes difficult? And while you can always alter course and even turn around, there is no reverse. Cycling is ultimately about pressing on.

Considering the life-bike analogy, my decision to go to the bike store made a lot of sense under the circumstances. It was a way to take action, to move forward, and to get the stink out of my soul. The bike frame’s iridescent blue was the final inducement to write the check.

It’s a fact that this new bicycle will help me deal with some of life’s inevitable rough spots while also offering me time to process next steps with whatever I confront. In a similar way, that’s exactly what a good therapist does. So, regardless of whether it’s a form of therapy or a splurge or both, I’m grateful for the benefits, comfort, and remedy offered by getting this new bike.

If you happen to catch someone pedaling like mad on the streets and trails of Lancaster, it’s probably me. I’ll be wearing a smile, thinking my thoughts, and pressing on

.

Payback was swift. Reaching caused me to lose my balance. I distinctly remember making a split second decision to jump rather than fall to the floor. It didn’t seem that far– yet it was. Believe me I know that now. In my defense I’m in terrific shape for someone north of sixty so I sometimes forget that the athlete I was thirty years ago isn’t my current reality.

I landed awkwardly on the hard tile floor with my left heel taking all the weight. Instantaneously an explosive and debilitating pain caused me to crumble to the ground in the fetal position. Like me with the centipede, the floor had been merciless and unforgiving. After a moment, however, the tile did offer me small comfort as the cool smooth forms pressed into my cheek. “There, there,” they seemed to silently whisper.

X-rays taken the following morning were questionable as to whether I’d fractured my heel bone as the Physician's Assistant diagnosed. Regardless, whether my foot was actually broken or merely bruised the treatment was the same. Crutches and a boot were proffered along with the advice that I stay off it as much as possible. Healing could take four to six weeks or longer.

Unfortunately, as in comedy, timing was everything. On my agenda just three weeks later was a long planned hiking trip to the mountains of Peru. My daughters had each arranged their work schedules around it and I was looking forward to this last mother-daughter-sister adventure before one got married. The orthopedic doctor said that hiking wouldn’t turn my nonsurgical injury into a surgical one, however he did warn that it might be painful.

Two weeks before departure I tried ditching the crutches and was beginning to put weight on my heel. By week three I could hobble short distances gingerly, though it definitely hurt to do so. In the end I loaded up on ibuprofen, bought shoe inserts to cushion my foot, and off to Peru I went. Not wanting to disappoint my daughters was the initial and sufficient reason I didn’t cancel, yet it wasn’t the only factor. Let’s add a bit of naivete regarding how physically demanding the hiking route actually turned out to be.

One daughter had suggested this particular destination the year before after scanning the catalogue of our favorite adventure travel company, Backroads. Relying on her enthusiasm and seeing the Nat Geo-worthy photographs of Machu Picchu, I didn’t look at the itinerary or the actual hiking routes. I just said “yes” presuming that whatever we faced I could manage, especially since we had only recently completed a difficult trekking excursion to Patagonia.

For Peru, we had chosen a 42.2 mile lodge-to-lodge hike from Cusco to Machu Picchu. I’d been on multiple Backroads trips before and knew that local experts would have researched the area, found the best places to stay, eat, and hike, and would give each guest a seamless, brilliantly organized experience that was fun, safe, and as challenging as each person desired. Except, there was one major difference with this particular Peru itinerary. Since the lodges were mostly inaccessible by car or railway, the physically challenging part wasn’t negotiable. Once the journey had begun, Plan B for hikers who struggled or got injured was a scrappy pony nicknamed 911, but he could only carry one rider (me) over certain sections of the trail which added up to about 8 miles. The remainder required that I walk.

The doctor was right. Pain was my constant hiking buddy. Concerning how our bodies work the apostle Paul poetically states: “If one part suffers, every part suffers with it.” That definitely happened. To no one’s surprise my disabled foot kept sending alarms to the rest of me that it was not happy being pressed into hard service when it should have been excused from duty.

The amazing thing however was to notice an altogether different phenomenon, one that counteracted my physical affliction. I realized that in addition to the ibuprofen, other hikers were a potent form of analgesia. When I felt an emotional connection with one or more individuals in the group, that bond acted as a catalyst which tamped down the signals my pain receptors were sending. In a truly significant way the emotional presence of others on the trip affected my daily ability to handle the intense, throbbing bone tenderness that I felt with each step I took. This was astonishing.

Upon returning home I did some investigation. Apparently what I intuitively recognized is actually backed up by scientific evidence. In the 1990s a Harvard-trained psychiatrist, Daniel J. Siegel, studied how the mind, brain, and relationships integrate. His research developed a field called interpersonal neurobiology or IPNB for short. IPNB explains how social interactions shape ongoing neural connections and affect the flow of energy and information between people and specifically between their brains. Biological signals (like pain) and interactions with others are part of a continuous feedback loop which impacts each brain’s response pathways. Positive social exchanges release oxytocin and dopamine, reduce stress, promote neuroplasticity, and enhance mental health. This occurs within each of the brains involved in the interaction. One facet of this is that IPNB can steer a person’s own subjective experience even while it’s unfolding. Practically speaking, this meant that each person in our hiking group truly did influence my ability to make it through that day’s hike. I’m grateful to have been a part of such a warm and welcoming bunch of individuals.

To those who connected with me and made me feel part of a collective we for nine days, the following is for you.

Oscar, Saul, and Ingrid, you didn’t just act as guides who walked beside me but you shared your stories and asked questions, enabling me to keep going poquito mas (a little more).

Chris, you challenged me to do whatever I could on Day 3 by reminding me “a little of something is better than 100% of nothing.”

Dawn, by staying just in front of me on the steep Collpapampa and Lucmabamba routes on Days 5 and 6, and maintaining an ongoing dialogue, you kept me engaged and connected.

Gary, by allowing me to take your steadying hand on the steep steps of Machu Picchu Montaña, you gave me the courage to go further and higher than I thought possible.

Lisa, your example of pressing on and in fact leading our group most of the way despite a chronic health matter was inspiring.

Doug, your running narrative on our daily happenings kept me smiling.

Stephanie you affirmed the importance of investing in what matters, whether it's a lifelong friendship or an historic building.

Kim, your posture was a lesson all its own. You reinforced the importance of planning and preparation for everything you choose to tackle in life.

My two daughters, Erin and Emilee, your compassion and encouragement lent me strength, your antics kept me laughing, and your love for me and for each other was evident every step of the way.

Thank you to everyone in our group. You likely didn’t know that you were performing a form of pain alleviating medical service. I noticed and appreciated your kindness then and will continue to hold onto it as part of my memories of Peru.

Yet this journey was not merely about participating in a difficult challenge at a remote and beautiful place. Together the ten of us were introduced to “the Way of Oscar”, Oscar being our incomparable Backroads leader. He was the total package: a man of the people who was also a poet, diplomat, director, negotiator, connector, banker, athlete, and street smart strategist. Tough as they come, but compassionate and gentle with a ready sense of humor. Oscar’s way of showing us why we should absolutely fall in love with Peru involved interacting with the genuine people who lived and worked there while immersing our senses in the tastes, touches, and sounds of the region. To enhance our trip Oscar organized extracurriculars that involved:

-feeding alpacas and llamas and then hiking with a llama herdess who was a deadeye with a huaraca sling,

-being blessed by an Andean shaman who had us embody our intentions onto coca leaves which he then carried to a mountaintop at midnight to burn as bequests to Pachamama (Mother Earth),

-listening to traditional musicians in Andean costume while we feasted on a fire cooked meal under the shade of a tent in a lush Cusco Valley field,

-ducking into the rustic, mountain home of a Quechuen woman living on the land in the customary way she’d learned from her ancestors and talking to her through a translator as her guinea pigs dashed by our feet on the dirt floor, and

-tasting Andean coffee that had just been freshly roasted from beans harvested off the trees growing a few feet from the ovens.

These colorful cultural experiences were an unforgettable dimension of our trip and Oscar was our gracious host throughout. He even smoothed the way for each of us to have our very specific dietary needs catered to, meanwhile managing to make it appear that our peccadilloes were not the least bit problematic. As a result of the love and the work of each person who contributed to creating such an outstanding holiday for all of us, going to Peru felt like visiting a version of Shangri-La.

Returning home, my daughters and I brought with us the afterglow that can result when an experience checks all the boxes. We didn’t care that these things might be the cliches of travel’s benefits because they were all true. Through our hours together on the hiking trails, shared meals, and visits to out-of-the-ordinary places we had strengthened our bonds as a family while creating lifelong memories. By having an extended time to step away from the stresses of everyday life we also gained new perspectives on current habits or patterns that might need a makeover. We were each rejuvenated by the stunning landscapes we encountered and our extended time spent outdoors. Finally, overcoming the physical challenges of the trail and hanging tough despite the difficulties of distance and elevation was exhilarating, something that gave each of us an accomplishment to remember and celebrate. All this in addition to the pleasure of doing such a trip with a group of people we only just met but genuinely enjoyed. Is it any wonder we are already perusing the Backroads catalogs for our next family adventure?

The ultimate take home, however, is that no matter my age I still want to be a person who’s testing her limits. I felt alive in a rich and textured way by being immersed in a foreign culture and pushing myself to do the day’s hikes. I want to continue choosing growth by doing new things, pressing forward despite whatever resistance seeks to hold me back, and attempting goals that feel uncomfortably beyond my reach.

You can do this too. There just might be someone you need to meet, an opportunity waiting to be discovered, or a lesson you need to learn that could reset your outlook, your relationships, or your self-perception. Henry Ford said it well about looking for people with an infinite capacity “...to not know what can’t be done.” I think this is a great mantra for how I want to age. Forget about playing it safe and staying in the designated “senior lane.” Why not defy expectations and do the unexpected? After all, that’s where the fun is.

My sister Leslie signed up for a triathlon. She’s 70, two years older than me. When she casually mentioned this over the phone I thought, what the hell. Remembering that forty years earlier I had completed several triathlons, my brain conveniently ignored the passage of time so I said, “I’m in too.” One thing I knew— if she could do it, so could I.

After we hung up I got on my computer. With a few clicks I found the colorful race website. The Escape the Cape Triathlon was billed as an “outstanding athlete experience” with awesome swag. The site went on to describe the event as follows: “Now in its 12th year, Escape the Cape has been named the Best Triathlon in the Mid-Atlantic and NorthEast Regions, and one of the Top 5 Bucket List Races in the World.” The shorter Sprint Distance category would start with a 12-foot leap off the Cape May-Lewes Ferry into the Delaware Bay for a .35 mile open water swim. After that would come a 13 mile closed loop bike course through the picturesque back roads of Cape May, followed by a 3 mile run held partly on the soft sand beach.

I sat at my desk and considered what all this involved. With the race just a month away, there was not enough time to seriously train. I hadn’t gone running or been in a pool in decades, but I was extremely active. Most days found me either weight training or biking 20 mile distances, sometimes both. Clearly the bike portion wouldn’t be a problem and I could always walk if I got tired during the run. The tricky part of the triathlon would be the swim.

Before paying the entrance fee I decided to get in a pool to see whether I could do 24 laps without stopping. This was equivalent to the required swim distance. Several days later I pulled on goggles and a bathing suit and gave it a go. After finding that the distance was doable if I used every available stroke, I registered for the triathlon.

* * * * * *

On race morning The Cape May Ferry Terminal was an anthill of activity, everyone carrying something or engaged in a task. The logistics of a 1,300 entrant, single-day triathlon are complex and extensive. A horde of volunteers, medical staff, race officials, and street marshals are needed, in addition to the use of local law enforcement authorities. This small army monitors the athletes, the spectators, the harbor, and the roads being closed among other things. It’s a Herculean task to pull off successfully. As a first time participant in Escape the Cape, I noticed and felt grateful for each person who worked or volunteered to make the experience safe, fun, and up-lifting.

Following events like the Boston Marathon bombing and the 2015 Paris Attacks, security at sporting events has been enhanced. Before being admitted to the race area at dawn our gear bags had to be sniffed by tail wagging police dogs. Their handlers were professional yet friendly. After passing inspection I headed to the bike corral to lay out my towel, t-shirt, helmet, and separate shoes for biking and running. I wore bike shorts and a sports bra underneath my brand new full sleeve wetsuit.

I’d ordered the wetsuit a week earlier and tried it on just two days before the triathlon. It seemed especially tight but there was no time to get a different one. A friend assured me that a tight fit was good because it would prevent too much water from flowing through and thus I’d stay warm. A word to the wise: never use your gear for the first time during a race. More on this later.

At 6:45 AM an announcement was made to begin lining up to board the ferry. There was a single departure at 7:30 no matter whether you were doing the Olympic distance full mile swim or the Sprint distance .3 mile swim. Eventually all 1,300 competitors formed a queue that circled the two acre parking lot. Leslie and I got in line and shuffled forward. The group’s mood was congenial, each of us having freely chosen to do this. Most people were chatty, trading stories as to their reasons for participating. These included the personal challenge of it, wanting bragging rights, training for a military school, or having a group of friends that convinced the person to try it. One guy I spoke with said he’d recovered from a spinal injury despite an initial prognosis that he’d never walk again. Doing the triathlon was a way for him to live life to the fullest. Many said that their goal for the triathlon was modest like mine. We simply wanted to finish the whole thing.

The back end of the line eventually made it to the ferry, the scene like a cruise sailaway. The deck railings were already crowded with athletes shouting and waving to their loved ones on shore. A large gang of enthusiastic volunteers formed a gauntlet along the entrance ramp, clapping and cheering for us as we walked by. Hype music like Daft Punk’s One More Time and Imagine Dragons’ Whatever It Takes blasted from the ship’s speakers as the last athlete boarded. On signal the ramp retracted and with a long blast from the ship’s horn we headed for the Delaware Bay where the race would begin. It took fifteen minutes for the ferry to reach its first stop a mile from shore. This was for the 565 racers doing the Olympic distance. Once the last of these athletes entered the water the ferry would move closer to shore for the rest of us who were doing the .3 mile Sprint distance.

A third of a mile may not sound like much until you’re standing on a deck looking to shore. From that vantage point you see clearly how far you must swim. The distance is more than five football fields end-to-end and yes, there is actual danger. The combination of cold water, compromised visibility, currents, and waves is unpredictable. Then, to make the swim even more exciting, this particular triathlon has that signature start: an adrenaline-inducing leap from the ferry deck into the water 12-feet below.

To ensure that athletes would not land on top of one another as they vaulted off the deck, we were organized into three lines spaced apart across the ferry’s stern. Race volunteers gave each entrant the go ahead to jump once the immediately preceding swimmer had bobbed to the surface and cleared the landing area. Leslie and I planned to jump at the same time so we stood in separate lines, occasionally raising our eyebrows at each other because of what we were about to do. Her mere presence gave me courage. Our sisterly bond had that primal component which connected us even before we had developed rational awareness.

During our childhoods Leslie had saved me from drowning– twice. When I was five and she was seven a rogue wave knocked me over as we stood waist deep in the ocean. The churning surf held me down while salt water forced itself up my nose. As the wave receded, dragging me along the bottom, Leslie saw me struggling, grabbed my arm, and yanked me to the surface. Without her help I would have been pulled out by the current. Standing shakily I immediately looked for the comfort of our mom. I saw her sitting on the beach, talking with friends, clearly unconcerned because she hadn’t noticed my distress or Leslie’s heroics. Apparently, parenting was a more casual affair in those days.

Not to belabor the point, but my mom and dad didn’t seem to worry too much about the potential for danger when it came to us kids. When I was ten, Leslie and I got permission to go sailing by ourselves on the lake where our cousin lived. The water was frigid that March day. I know this personally because we capsized the small boat within ten minutes of leaving the dock. We weren’t wearing the orange life jackets we’d brought, probably because no one forced us and we thought they looked stupid. After we spilled into the lake Leslie’s first move was to hoist herself onto the upside down hull. Her second was to snatch me by the collar and pull me up beside her. Had she not done this I would have sunk. The shocking cold of the freezing water plus the weight of my wet clothes had left me paralyzed.

Knowing that Leslie was my guardian angel when it came to near death encounters with water, I planned to do this triathlon swim with her by my side or at least close by. Unfortunately we each reached the front of our respective lines at different times, forcing us to jump a minute apart with me going first. As they say, the first casualty of any war is the battle plan.

There was no time to dwell on this however because after hitting the water I quickly realized there was a bigger problem. On taking my first stroke to move away from the ferry the tight wetsuit began choking me. Panicking, I flipped onto my back. Fortunately this immediately loosened the pressure against my windpipe. I opened my mouth to suck in air and got a mouthful of salt water. With mounting fear I leaned back and lifted my arm to try a competitive backstroke, but the movement of my shoulder caused the wetsuit collar to constrict again. I started hyperventilating and felt my heart thumping wildly but nonetheless forced myself to roll over for a moment to see how far I had to swim. It seemed a very long way.

Now what?

A rescue volunteer watched me from a nearby paddle board. “You okay?” she shouted.

No, I wasn’t okay, in fact I was far from okay, yet I also wasn’t willing to quit mere minutes after I’d started. “Yeah. Think so. Give me a moment,” I said.

Floating on my back I gulped air, bobbing in the waves. A swell broke over my head, tasting of brine and slapping me into survival mode. Instinctively I began moving my arms and legs and found myself doing an elementary backstroke. While slow, the motions kept my shoulders from lifting and avoided pulling the wetsuit tighter across my neck. Of course I couldn’t see where I was going, but that was lower on the list of priorities. Mortal fear tends to isolate your thinking to what’s absolutely necessary to stay alive. I focused on three things: Pull. Kick. Breathe.

Once I got going my panic began to ease a bit. Since I could now breathe and was moving in the right direction, pressing on seemed the logical thing to do. In my peripheral vision were the huge inflatable buoys intended to mark the way. Volunteers on jet skis occasionally yelled for me to alter my course. “You’re going the wrong way! Head to your right.” I corrected course and continued on.

Seventeen minutes and thirty-eight seconds later, I heaved myself onto the sand. The relief of standing on the shore made me want to pause and have a good cry, but the race clock was ticking. I began a slow jog toward the path leading to the bike corral.

After the terror of that swim, the rest of the triathlon was truly about simple fortitude. All I had to do was get through 13 miles of biking followed by three miles of running. Since the bike distance was less than what I ride on a regular basis, that part was actually fun. Then came the final leg, the run. Unless in an airport about to miss my connection, I’m definitely not a runner. That this run was partly on the beach made it even more challenging. Compared to a hard surface, running on soft sand requires about twice the energy.

Ultimately I did the so-called run segment at a brisk walk trot. Along the route strangers cheered me from their lawn chairs, or shook cow bells with one hand while holding cold beers in the other. “Good job 444!” or “You got this!” they’d yell. I’d oblige them with a wave or a smile, feeling silly due to my ridiculously slow pace. Eventually, however, like the persevering tortoise I got where I needed to go, raising my tired arms in gratitude before crossing the finish line.

Half an hour later the race announcer informed the crowd that the woman wearing a pink jersey and matching pink sunglasses was completing her first triathlon. “She’s SEVENTY ladies and gentleman,” he boomed. Of course it was my sister Leslie. We later learned that Leslie was the silver medal winner for her age group.

By the time we both finished, the post race celebration was in full swing on the lawn next to the ferry terminal. We joined the infectious party atmosphere to celebrate our accomplishment. Nearly everyone wore a big smile in addition to the oversize finishers medal awarded to each athlete who had completed the race.

As between Leslie and me, the satisfaction of achieving this goal was fulfilling and affirming for each of us even though our motivations for doing the triathlon were different. My sister entered the race as a bucket list adventure that reflected her values. She admired spontaneity, strength, and athleticism. True to form, she had not even trained, figuring she’d muscle through it based on her fitness level from playing competitive pickleball several hours each day. I entered this triathlon in order to create the memory of doing it with Leslie. For me, that would be a testament to our bond as sisters as well as a choice to defy the stereotypes of what was possible for women our age.

In that regard, here’s what I learned. Doing Escape the Cape required me to be my bravest self. In a single morning I got to live through a wide range of the human experience. I started with hope, then struggled, felt fear, doubted myself, made friends who encouraged me along the way, endured pain, stumbled, changed gears, felt grateful for all those who worked to make this day possible, smiled, cried, then persevered till I reached my goal and finished the race. It was quite a day.

Ultimately every person who did this race showed courage and recognized new facets of his or her own strength. In the process we grew on many levels, enriching our lives, and adding to our repertoire of stories to share. By opening the door to welcome the new and the unknown, we demonstrated what it means to live fully.

For those who are wondering, registration is already open for Escape the Cape, 2026 [click underlined words to see the race website]. If you sign up, take it from me, be sure to test your wetsuit before leaping off the ferry.

Since photos can tell their own story, here are three pics from Race Day:

Taking the leap!

Crossing the finish line at last.

Post race photo with my amazing sister, Leslie.

“One of the most important things you can do on this earth is to let people know they are not alone.” ― Shannon L. Alder

I walked to the front of the theatre, climbed the steps, and turned to face the audience. In front of me was a microphone on a skinny pole. Appropo of what I was about to say there was nowhere to hide. It was my Lancaster Story Slam debut.

For those unfamiliar with Story Slam, it’s a live storytelling competition, usually based on a theme. Each person who participates has five minutes to tell a personal story without using props or notes. It's a public event where judges from the audience rate the storytellers' performance and then a winner is announced. The night I spoke the theme was titled All in Your Head. This fit my story which was about doing a certain highly unusual activity for someone my age. In my head were the two things I first had to overcome– fear and embarrassment.

After the emcee introduced me from side stage, all was quiet. I sucked in a deep breath, met eyes with my family in the second row, then lifted my chin and began my opening line.

“A woman my height and weight has around 2,500 square inches of skin, about the size of a beach towel. A typical bikini has maybe 300 square inches of fabric, which is close to the size of two washcloths….”

These first words were intended to rope the audience in by offering an interesting fact as well as a tantalizing visual.

Eighteen years earlier I had competed in a national fitness contest in Las Vegas. Walking and posing on stage while wearing a rhinestone studded bikini and high heels was one aspect of the competition. Being 50 years old at that time, I was way past your typical bikini age. At the Story Slam I explained my motivation for doing such an unexpected feat. I hoped the audience would then understand my ‘why’.

That ‘why’ circled back to someone who had influenced me to embrace life more fully. He himself had been a person who rarely turned down the opportunity to attempt something for the first time. He wasn’t fazed if it required daring. Whether it was hang gliding off a cliff on a 10,000 foot mountain, taking apart a 1967 Volkswagen transmission guided only by a handbook, or tasting haggis, a savoury pudding containing sheep's pluck (heart, liver, and lungs), he was always willing to give different experiences a try. This was only one of the many qualities I admired about him.

Since we’d lived together as husband and wife for twenty years, I’d certainly had lots of opportunities for close scrutiny. Mark Hassel had done so much so well in his brief 47 years. As a skin cancer surgeon, he’d helped heal thousands. He had a legendary laugh and quick wit. He’d been an amazing father, a beloved husband, a generous brother and loyal friend to those who knew him. Yet despite all this, upon receiving a terminal diagnosis Mark wondered if he’d done enough. Would he be forgotten after he died?

Not on my watch I vowed.

Wanting his memory to live on, I thought a lot about the ways we remember loved ones who’ve died. We often put their name somewhere–like on a bench or a memorial wall. But that, a once and done exercise, did not carry forward the vibrant man Mark had been. Knowing how his example had taught me how to be a better person, I decided on a different way to honor his memory. Live how he lived. Or at least try. Part of that meant embracing new experiences, especially challenging ones, with gusto.

Previously, when it came to trying something novel I was more of the cautious, let-me-watch-someone-else-go-first type. For me to adopt my husband’s mindset as a conscious way to honor his memory, I had to resist saying “no” when asked if I’d like to do something. How about wearing a bikini onstage at a fitness contest in Las Vegas?

I hadn’t sought out doing such a thing. It had presented itself unexpectedly. A few weeks after my husband’s funeral I was releasing some of my anger and sadness by pounding weights at the gym. A trainer approached me to ask if I’d like to join a team of women he was coaching. They were all planning to compete in Women’s Tri-Fitness in Las Vegas. He believed that with his help I could develop my physique and do it too. Was I interested?

Me? On stage in a bikini? At 50? What an outrageous thing to do. But that was exactly the point. I thought about Mark and his “live fully” approach to new experiences. I also considered whether I wanted to remain someone who always played it safe, whether out of fear or due to the likelihood of potential embarrassment. Did I want to some day look back and wonder what might have happened? Didn’t living fully mean saying yes to new, first time experiences that forced me to take a risk or be brave? Of course it did. I said “yes” to the fitness competition.

In the months leading up to Las Vegas I made new friends, got in amazing shape, and found a temporary diversion for my grief. Once the event was over, the positive effects of choosing to do something that scared me caused me to make a decision. Every year thereafter I was going to do at least one significant challenge or adventure to honor my husband’s memory.

The idea would be to push myself beyond what felt comfortable. Through undertaking such challenges I'd be forced to face a fear, learn something, or test my abilities. I dubbed these my annual “Legacy Challenges”. Getting in front of an audience to tell a story at Story Slam was an example.

Public speaking is something a lot of people avoid. I’m one of them. I’d actually begun psyching myself up to participate in Story Slam for a long, long time. Having attended Story Slams for years I’d finally determined to tell a story of my own. I began prepping a few months ahead of the intended date. First I wrote out my talk, polishing it until satisfied. Then I spent several weeks memorizing and practicing it– first to myself, then to my family. By the night of the competition, I was confident that I’d gone through my talk out loud at least 20 times. That ought to have been sufficient.

Except, it wasn’t enough. Half-way into telling my story at Story Slam my mind went blank, severing any connection between the separate acts of thinking and talking. An uncomfortable silence took over while everyone waited for me to resume speaking. I looked helplessly toward the back of the room. After a few seconds, I simply admitted, “I can’t remember….” and my voice trailed off. That’s when I heard some beautiful sounds.

Shouts of encouragement arose from the audience.

“C,mon, you got this!” and “It’s good. Tell us more!”

As if on cue, I suddenly recalled the next line and was then able to finish the story.

Loud applause accompanied me as I walked off the stage, relieved to be out of the spotlight. Feeling spent, I wanted to go off to a quiet place to be alone and maybe even cry because I’d hoped for a different outcome. Since that wasn’t an option I walked back to my seat where my family assured me I’d done just fine. Knowing they were biased I didn’t believe them.

At the conclusion of the evening, however, I had the delightful pleasure of having multiple audience members come up to me to share how much they’d enjoyed my story. “We were rooting for you,” said one young woman as her friends stood beside her nodding in agreement. “We thought you should have won.” Since their praise was unsolicited as well as unbiased, it had weight.

Reflecting on my Story Slam experience the next day, the embarrassment of freezing up in front of the audience was not what stayed with me. Instead, I felt the brotherly love created by having the support of total strangers. When I faltered, hearing them cheer me on was magic. This is often how people are–expansive in their encouragement because they want success for the person trying to do what’s difficult. Others could not have known the forced determination and teeth clenching it required for me to attempt telling a story. What they saw was that I pressed on after stumbling.

We like to see the drama of someone else getting back up after a setback because it inspires us to overcome our own challenges, face our own fears, and push our own boundaries. Most of us can relate to falling short of the grade. We understand the tenacity it takes to keep trying anyway. Rooting for another who is in the midst of their struggle can bring unity among individuals, reminding us of our common humanity. We draw courage when we witness another person persevering despite a reversal.

Each time I do a Legacy Challenge I discover something unexpected. I thought I had to recite my story perfectly to have a good experience at Story Slam. Yet it was because I floundered while up on stage that I got the amazing support of complete strangers. Had I given a polished presentation without making a mistake, I would not have felt the audience’s affirmation when I needed it. Sometimes it’s when we are vulnerable and oh-so-human that others get the opportunity to come along beside us and to show us we’re not alone.

Another Friday. The coffee has been had, the hopeful prayers lifted, the wobbly intentions made. I want to write meaningful words or tell a story that will lift up another person’s heart. And yet, I’m still thinking about an angry conversation I had with a loved one yesterday. The person’s anger felt like an attack even though it wasn’t directed at me. I knew that the anger was really a cover for deep sadness.

The root cause of this sadness is not something I can change. It results from the suffering caused by broken relationships. What I know to do is to listen, to acknowledge the situation as tragic, and to tell him that I care. Though these small attempts to show love to him or to anyone else seem inadequate, offering them is important nonetheless. Life has taught me how encouragement can be transformative and how a small kindness has the power to diffuse a difficult day.

When my husband died, the one who is now sad is the person who most consistently visited, called, and sent notes. His acts didn’t remove my grief, but certainly helped me endure it. Part of my caring for him now is to consider what I can do or say to help him given the present reality of those strained relationships. Which is why I’ve given a lot of thought to the problem of anger.

What I know from personal experience is that when I’ve been hurt, misunderstood, or snubbed by another person my initial response is to be angry. I may vent how I feel with my husband or a close friend, though I usually don’t say anything to the person involved because it rarely helps. Depending on what’s at stake, the incident generally blows over.

Yet there have been times where the hurt is big. Then, despite time passing, I’m still holding onto what happened, replaying my side of the story to myself. Whenever I think about the situation, I find myself getting riled up. Again. The result is a constant leak of positive energy. As days become weeks my emotional response gets caught in an endless loop of remembering what was done or said to me and being angry about it. Unless I change something, the situation will continue to drag me down. Fortunately, I’ve found a remedy.

It’s not easy to do but has worked consistently whenever I’ve pivoted and recognized that it’s the only way. Yes, it requires a different attitude and yes, the central concept uses a word that begins with a capital “F”.

I’m talking about forgiveness.

Just hearing that word may cause some readers to have this immediate response. “I absolutely cannot forgive them.” What they mean is, I refuse to forgive someone who doesn’t deserve it after what they did to me.

Maybe that’s true. Maybe they don’t deserve it, but putting aside for a moment the question of deserving, let’s consider the benefits to refusing to forgive someone and holding onto our anger. Here are five advantages to maintaining this position:

1-It allows a measure of control over the version of events. We can consider things solely from our own side, ignoring how we contributed or played a part.

2-It puts us in the position of being “right,” someone who was wronged by the actions of another. 3-It gives an excuse to avoid deeper examination of self and possible self-weaknesses.

4-Anger offers a justification for how we act. We can blame the other person who “made us mad.”

5-There’s a perverse satisfaction in stoking one’s anger or re-living a hurt. This is partly because life can make us feel impotent and sad. Anger feels energizing and powerful, at least in the short run.

On the opposing side, what are the unfavorables? Why might it be worth making the attempt to lay down our anger or face our sadness? To be clear, I’m talking about personal anger over a personal wrong, not righteous anger due to a social injustice. A few of personal anger’s negatives include:

1-It drains heart energy and drowns out other perspectives. When you’re angry you cannot feel love, peace, happiness, or other positive emotions.

2-Like a malignancy, anger grows, pushes into more areas, and affects your whole life. You develop an edge and perhaps begin to think everyone is against you.

3-Holding onto anger does not create good outcomes or fix anything. Usually it does the opposite.

4-The longer you hold onto anger, the more you tend to embellish the story of why you’re angry.

5-Anger creates a victim mentality where you abdicate personal responsibility for your attitudes and actions.

6-We are social creatures who need each other to thrive. Anger pushes people away.

7-Name one person you admire who has an anger problem. Is their anger one of the things you admire about them? Is anger a trait you want others to associate with you?

All of this may take time to sort through. No one wants to be pushed into giving up their anger, especially since the anger serves them in some way. Maybe choosing forgiveness doesn’t align with who you are and who you want to become. Not everyone buys into the idea that gratitude, love, and personal peace are traits to be cultivated.

Let’s assume however that you’ve given the matter thought and you want to lay down your anger and forgive someone–even though what they did was really hurtful and you’re not sure you’ll be able to forgive them. How do you start?

The only thing that has ever worked for me is to follow a “forgiveness thought sequence.” It’s basically a framework for thinking about what happened that includes three things. 1) the choice to forgive the person, 2) an admission that I have flaws too, and 3) prayer for the person who hurt me in which I ask God to bless them.

I start each day affirming my choice to forgive the person, acknowledging my own flaws, and praying for the person’s good. Especially at first I may need to repeat the three things throughout the day whenever I think about the situation and feel myself starting to get angry again. Over time, I usually find that the morning affirmation is enough because the matter becomes less and less important. Ultimately, I’m able to let my anger go. When I remember the person or what they did, I’m no longer upset with them.

So far, the longest time it has taken me to forgive someone has been two months. That means two months of daily choosing to forgive, daily remembering my own flaws, and daily asking for that person to be blessed. The best part is that I’m set free from my anger and that feels good.

The poet Mary Oliver wrote the following after she noticed the soft willingness of nature to start over every spring. Perhaps her words will inspire you too.

Therefore, dark past, I’m about to do it. I’m about to forgive you.

for everything.

The rain had just cleared when I walked to the beach to watch the setting sun sink beneath the ocean. Turning back to shore I saw a magnificent rainbow to the East. The whole sky was offering me an exquisite ethereal performance. Though I longed to share the moment with another person, even a stranger, I stood there alone. My head swiveled back and forth to capture the changing beauty of these two dramatic canvases.

I’d felt a calling to walk to the beach that day by myself. So I went, not knowing that the gift of a simultaneous sunset and rainbow awaited. The astonishing sight caused me to suck in my breath and hold it–as if by doing so I could eliminate the distraction of breathing and be more fully attuned to the transcendent.

To be awestruck immediately pushes you onto a different track than the ordinary one you were on. It’s a profound redirection of your orientation that feels both internally expansive and yet somehow calming. The immersive blending of the two dramatic skyviews altered my whole mood. In no hurry to leave, I stood mesmerized until the rainbow faded, the sun set, and the day gently floated beyond reach. Then I walked home with an attuned awareness of the surf’s rhythmic drumming and the singing of the katydids, crickets, and grasshoppers. The friendly light coming from my neighbors’ windows spoke to me of warmth and kinship. My feet didn’t just carry me along the quiet streets, I felt the texture of the ground and through that a connection with the earth. 

If only I could have maintained that feeling of awe, but it was like trying to hold onto a bubble. By morning it had evaporated. I had a memory of the feeling, though not the feeling itself. 

When I considered other times in my life when I’d experienced awe, each was a monumental event that I could easily recall, but they were decidedly spaced years apart. Here’s a partial list: looking up at a clear, Montana night sky to see the Milky Way’s carpet of stars, attending a Van Gogh immersion exhibit where his paintings came to animated life across the floor, walls, and ceiling of an exhibit hall, and feeling the reverberation of ocean waves slamming into the cliff I was standing on while watching the surf’s spray explode against the rocks 60 feet below me.

Awe is one of our most powerful emotions. According to Dacher Keltner, a University of California psychologist, it’s the “feeling of being in the presence of something vast that transcends your current understanding of the world.” In a book he wrote about the importance of awe, Keltner argues that experiencing this emotion may hold the key to a more fulfilling life.

Until recently, there hasn’t been a lot of research on the psychology of awe. Michelle Shiota, Ph.D., an Arizona State professor, has been leading the charge to change that.

Her mission has been to find out the why’s of experiencing awe, how it affects our brains, and what it does to us psychologically and cognitively. According to Shiota, the positive benefits of awe include slowing us down, soothing us, inducing a state of mindfulness, inspiring us, and redirecting our emotions to positive territory. I definitely felt each of these that night on the beach.

If awe is something worthwhile, how do we get more awe inspiring experiences? Is it even possible to cultivate something that seems to be (1) a spontaneous response and (2) primarily reserved for those who have the luxury to be exposed to great art, music, or vistas? The psychologist Keltner would argue that yes, it is possible to cultivate awe and furthermore the emotion is accessible to everyone. 

As part of his book research, Kelner visited San Quentin State Prison to interview inmates about their experiences of awe. Despite the prisoners’ horrendously difficult circumstances, they did experience awe. The prisoners described events like studying the Qur’an or singing in a church group as awe inducing. Kelner concludes that “awe is almost always nearby, and is a pathway to healing and growing in the face of the losses and traumas that are part of life.”

One fairly easy way to seek out awe is to take a walk with the specific intention of being deliberate in looking for what is beautiful. Writer Rachel Carson advises that we should open our eyes to “unnoticed beauty” and ask ourselves, “What if I had never seen this before? What if I knew I would never see it again?” 

Carson’s questions remind me how perspective can alter perception. In particular I remember the days following September 11, 2001. For me, especially that first week, there was an attuned awareness of the sacredness of everyday life. As I stopped to get coffee, pick up a few groceries, or simply head to work, I thought of the privilege of having an ordinary day. I saw those around me through a lens of gratitude. What if my life ended suddenly and violently and I didn’t get to casually interact with other people ever again? Life itself felt fragile and especially precious. If you were an adult in that era, maybe you had similar feelings and thoughts. This perception of life’s preciousness caused me to have a particular focus on gratitude. Again, though, with time’s passage that awareness and focus faded for me.

After thinking it over I’ve drawn this conclusion: the fading of an intense response to the extraordinary is okay. Having powerful emotions after big events can affect us by reframing our priorities and centering us. These experiences often foster positive things, like ennobling thoughts about gratitude. We might be inspired to recognize our own resilience, notice the presence of the spiritual, or have a more selfless love for others. All of these are excellent things, but in actuality I personally can’t live for long at that bandwidth. The calm of routine, the quiet assurance of a normal day, the opportunity to sink into a book, the tub, my own bed. These also are necessary and offer a different version of centering, gratitude, and restoration. 

Mae West is quoted as saying that “too much of a good thing is wonderful.” I tend to disagree. Too much of anything is usually just too much. It’s the very unusualness of singular experiences that make them singular and thus memorable.

I hope that each of us, every once in a great while, has an extraordinary moment that induces awe. On other days may we simply be conscious of the good fortune we enjoy when circumstances are routine.

Toward the end of a hot July day several hundred of us waited on the beach in Avalon, New Jersey. We stood shoulder-to-shoulder. Scrawled on our arms, legs, and swim caps were our assigned race numbers. We were about to begin a mile long, out-and-back, open ocean swim. Beside me was my lifeguard boyfriend, Mark. Sensing my jitters he turned to look at me, grinned, and offered a thumbs up sign. “We got this,” he said.

Moments later a long air horn blast sounded the start, the signal for everyone to begin sprinting toward the water. At first all was chaos as we surged forward en masse, everyone looking for open space. Once we reached the surf’s edge our steps turned into prancing leaps so we could propel ourselves through the shallows. With so many people jostling for position, salt water splashed in all directions and I could barely see. I tripped over a small wave, stood up and got in two more steps before another wave curled in front of me. Diving through it, I bumped into someone’s back, then began swimming for my life. Adrenaline and fear propelled me forward.

More than the race distance or the cold murky water, the thing that scared me most was knowing that sharks and stingrays were fairly common off the Jersey coast. Like many of my generation, I’d seen Jaws, the movie thriller about a bloodthirsty great white shark who terrorizes a New England town. For the next decade I could not set foot in salt water without the irrational terror that a shark was lurking nearby just waiting to make chum of my torso. Swimming a half-mile directly away from the beach felt like testing fate. So why did I do it?

Simply put, I wanted to prove to myself that facing my fear was better than surrendering without even trying. Oddly, this conviction emerged from a childhood that had quashed experimenting to discover inner strengths. I’d grown up hearing messages from my dad that either you were naturally good at something or you weren't. Especially as a female, he said, it was important to be realistic about my capabilities —such as they were. I should only reach for what I could be sure to grasp. Additionally, he was quick to knock me down a peg whenever I achieved success in anything. His stated reasoning was this: there’s a fine line between confidence and conceit. He didn’t want me to step over it. My aspirations should be to marry well and raise a family.

While I guessed that eventually I wanted to become a wife and mom, within my soul there was a stirring that also hoped for something more. After leaving for college and being on my own I had time to consider what I actually wanted for myself. Despite my quiet persona I felt a persistent call to test my limits, seek adventure, and become someone who fit the description of “intrepid”.

This ocean swim marked a first. It was a chance to test my unexplored, daring side. Initially I was apprehensive of the distance, but Mark's belief in my capability provided an antidote to the self-doubt. I would eventually come to see that Mark was the sort of person who leaned into risk and asked “why not”? To be encouraged to do likewise was empowering. I was to learn many other things through Mark’s example. Here are two of them.

Lesson One: taking the first step to do something new is often the hardest step of all. Most of us let doubts and worries dictate what we’re willing to try. We avoid challenging ourselves as a result. The problem with this mindset is that nothing new or exhilarating can happen when you always do what you’ve always done. Feeling safe comes at the cost of living a narrower life than necessary. Deliberately choosing to try new experiences offers an alternative. Of course this requires allowing for the possibility that you might feel uneasy, frightened, or uncomfortable in the process.

I’ve come to realize, however, that courage is a decision. I think of it in terms of brakes versus gas. Despite uncertainty about the outcome, brave people step on the gas and “go for it” whereas timid folks apply the mental brakes and hold themselves back or stop completely. Personally, I wanted to be more bold and adventurous. That required facing and overcoming any initial fear.

If you have ever thought of something you’d like to try someday my question to you is what’s holding you back? Time is certainly not your friend. Name your obstacle. Face it head on. Then write a start date on your calendar and get going.

Lesson Two: once you’ve gotten started with your new project, other mental hurdles will arise. Always. Rather than being surprised by this, you should be prepared. In situations involving physical activity Mark pointed out how the mind generally gives up before the body. He believed in the importance of grit to overcome the natural desire to quit something in the face of physical distress, pain, or exhaustion.

Grit isn’t mentioned very often nowadays, except in the context of something you do with your teeth. Grit is that motivational drive that keeps you going when an objective or task begins to get difficult. Attempting a challenge means that our minds must be firmly committed to the goal in order to persevere when the going gets rough. Without this commitment the tendency is to give up or quit. The good news is that grit is a character quality that can be developed and strengthened with practice. Also, it doesn’t always have to be the teeth clenching variety.

The character Dory in Pixar’s “Finding Nemo” offers a great example of this.

In one memorable scene the two fish, Nemo and Dory, must recover a diving mask which has fallen into an ocean trench. Nemo is understandably reluctant to descend the trench due to zero visibility and his fear of ocean monsters. Dory meanwhile seems unperturbed. She tells Nemo her simple secret. “Just keep swimming.” That’s it. She repeats this mantra over and over in a sing-song voice and then she proceeds to do just that. She swims into the trench, Nemo follows, and ultimately they find the mask. Yes they got chased by a sea monster, but they got away in the end.

Finding Nemo was made after I did the Avalon ocean swim. Nonetheless Dory’s suggestion was exactly what I needed to hear while freestyling through cold murky water while worrying about sharks. When scary situations present themselves, just keep swimming. When your heart is standing on the brakes, just keep swimming. When you want to curl up and quit, just keep swimming. In other words, don’t stop. Keep moving. Allow your momentum to carry you forward.

When I made it back to shore in a personal best 28 minutes Mark was already there waiting. My euphoria at completing the swim and the aliveness I felt after crossing the finish line is something I can still recall even after 40 years. The memory brings me deep satisfaction accompanied with a chaser of grief. Mark and I went on to marry, have kids, and share other adventures together. He died of cancer at age 47.

Now, each year, I continue to add another experience to the catalog of legacy challenges I complete in Mark’s memory. Living fully is my aspiration, one I do in his honor. How I think about these annual challenges can be summed up in the following quote:

To get to choose your method of suffering is a privilege. Not everyone has that choice. For some, their pain has been forced upon them.

These words reflect what I know to be true. I’m grateful for all the choices I get to make, even the choice to face my fears through audacious or scary adventures. Though my motivation is to remember and honor Mark, doing these things has enlarged my life and offered me a chance to meet people and go places I’d have otherwise missed.

Perhaps you’re not someone who wants to try physical challenges and maybe you’re not even interested in attempting new things despite my efforts to convince you otherwise. Even so, each of us can make small adjustments that offer the world a better version of who we are. Every single person makes an impact on those around her. What kind of impact do you want to make? These are not things to merely wish for—they are things to deliberately pursue through intentional action and choice. If nothing else we can all do the following: smile more, consider the needs of those around us, overlook someone’s faults, or adopt a more gracious attitude toward others because life is hard for everyone.

Do it for yourself or do it for someone you love. Regardless, just do it.

And yet…I opened my email to find this announcement from my favorite local farm market: FIRST CORN PLANTED!

Surprisingly, this news sprouted hope in my soul. Someone had the confidence to ignore the overt signs of winter’s grip and act in faith that the time for action had arrived. Though the soil is half frozen, looks barren, and requires diligent work to be pried open to receive seed, the farmer knew to look ahead. Ensuring a summer harvest requires planting when conditions appear inhospitable. I long to learn from this example.

In real time, this has been a hard winter for many hearts. Beyond the typical seasonal blues, the headlines of polarizing political dissension, mass firings, devastation from global warming, wars in the Ukraine, and Middle East tensions have extracted an additional toll on our capacity to believe there is reason for optimism. It takes little effort to conclude that the present darkness will grind on, that I am powerless to make a difference, and therefore I can ignore the urge to do the forward thinking work of planning, as well as planting. Such a mindset, however, snuffs out whatever light struggles to shine from within me.

The French writer Honore de Balzac said “It is easy to sit up and take notice. What is difficult is getting up and taking action.” He’s right. I can choose to set aside mental obstacles caused by a deluge of discouraging circumstances and also choose to look for ways to sow what is good in my own circle of existence. After all, I was fortunate to wake up to another day. Additionally, my country isn’t under siege and there is food on my table. I have time and resources to share. My choice for today is whether or not I will muster my energy to do so. This doesn’t have to be a major production. The notion of planting just a seed or two in the ground seems like a very do-able way to get started.

In case you wonder what this might entail, here is how that looks for me. It begins with a prayer along the lines of “Here I am. How can you use me today?”

I know I can be deliberate in sowing nibs of encouragement in other’s lives. I can also be open to seeing opportunities where I might be able to offer someone help. Whatever comes of my efforts, I will undoubtedly feel better for the attempt because it reflects an attitude that I can make a difference. If I’m willing to plant a few kernels of hope in another heart, who knows what might flourish as a result?

Last Spring I opened my front door to an unexpected visitor. She had stopped by our home to drop off some eggs. We hadn’t requested eggs and indicated as much but she was unfazed. She would leave the eggs whether we wanted them or not.

After urinating in our garden, she proceeded to dig a shallow hole, deposit her clutch of eggs, cover the hole and then, without further fuss, parade off in the direction of the other turtles who were sunning themselves by the pond a few doors down.

Surprise visitations come in all forms. Some, like the turtle visit, are delightful interruptions of our normal routines but others cause us deep pain by handing us news we never want to hear- a scary diagnosis, a miscarriage, a job loss, or even a death. If only we could refuse to accept delivery by narrowing our eyes, pressing our lips firmly together and protectively crossing our arms over our hearts. But we cannot.

And yet, sometimes in the midst of the ensuing trial or while processing our grief, we realize both what’s important and what definitely isn’t, so we reconsider our priorities. We may gain newfound gratitude for something we previously took for granted. We discover grace through the unexpected kindness others extend to us. We humans need such things in order to flourish and thrive so I want to be the sort of person who practices setting meaningful priorities, noticing small blessings, offering grace, and doing acts of kindness.

Ultimately, painful surprises present this paradox. Despite our wish to dodge it, pain offers an opportunity for those of us suffering it and those of us witnessing it to realign our actions with what we say truly matters. It may even bring out some of the best in us.

Andy Rooney, the curmudgeonly commentator and humorist, had a gift for saying much with few words. He is often credited with the observation that being kind is more important than being right. At heart, this statement reflects the difference between a self-oriented versus an other-oriented mindset.

When we view life through a self-oriented filter we primarily focus on satisfying our own wants. What can I get from this person? Do they fill whatever role I need them to fill? Or do they somehow inconvenience or annoy me, require my time or resources, or otherwise get in my way? When I regard the day, will I feel validated that my requirements for service, respect, or appropriate treatment were met?

A totally different approach would be to consider what can I give to others: how can I help this other person? What could I do to ease whatever burden or worry or heartache they may be carrying? Is there a way I can add something positive to their day today? When this day is over, will I have contributed to humanity some act of kindness or generosity?

I see these two ways of thinking as types of addition and subtraction. Let me explain. On occasion I’ve pondered whether there is some cosmic math equation that adds up the collective happiness in the hearts of people around the globe and then subtracts the collective miseries. If I were to guess, I’d say that the difference between the two is a negative number. I think this because suffering endures and is seemingly more tenacious in its ability to put a chokehold on our existence, whereas happiness is a fleeting spark, a brief burst that lasts hours or days.

Regardless of whether my math is correct, I know this. Since there’s already enough misery in the world, I’d like to be the sort of person who (at least most days) adds something to the happiness side of the equation. One way I can do this is by being other-oriented.

If you want to join me, here’s a suggested place to start. You can borrow this short prayer a friend recently shared with me:

—Lord lead me today to those I need and to those who need me.

Simple? Yes. Will it work? Yes, I believe so –at least in the way that what you find is often what you were searching for in the first place. In my own life, when I’ve deliberately sought to be led to those who need me, I’m open to seeing them scattered throughout the day. Need in this sense doesn’t have to be dire, it can merely be a need for encouragement. Thus, if a particular person comes to mind, I’ll call or text them. I can also choose to remember other people’s birthdays or special days, to say good morning to those I pass, to let the young mom go in front of me in the supermarket queue, to research inspirational quotes to share with friends, and to make a point to tell my adult children not only that I’m proud of them but why. In these and multiple similar ways I am led to make small contributions to the addition side of the cosmic equation.

To my delight, I’ve also been led to those I need. On several occasions the people I hoped for just happened to fortuitously cross my path: the right specialist doctor, an old friend I’d lost touch with, an insightful therapist, and even a creative consultant. Whether karma or evidence that what goes around, comes around, I am grateful for such lovely leadings.

The Emily Dickinson poem “I dwell in Possibility…” suggests the expansive hopefulness in our hearts. By using the words ‘windows’, ‘doors’, and ‘sky’ she indicates the need to look outside one’s self and to look up. She then concludes with a cryptic reference to those she calls Visitors. They are the ones to whom she directs her gifts, the poetry that comes from her heart. Most of us are not poets, but we can still be inspired to open our hearts to Visitors. All it requires is the intention to be generous–generous in spirit, in brotherly love, or in sharing whatever you have to offer.

What will you share with the world today?

My new friend was a recent widow of just a year. I’d been widowed for 17 and hoped, in some small way, to be an encouragement to her. Perhaps sharing my story and listening to hers would offer her solace.

There is a comfort in connecting with another who has gone through the same fiery trial you have endured. Their very existence affirms your belief that survival is possible. If they appear to be happy or thriving, then you can envision how there is hope for you to attain those things someday yourself. I know this, not from personal experience, but from remembering a time of hunger. During my early years wandering through grief I had longed to meet another widow further down the road who could offer me reassurance and comfort, but never found her. Eventually I decided to become that person for others.

Hours earlier, before leaving my house, I’d sat with my journal contemplating how I wanted to show up and what my intention would be. As I sought inner stillness to discern what might emerge, the word that came to mind was “comfort”. I then remembered the verse I’d learned years ago. “Praise be to …the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.” 2 Corinth 1:3-4.

I loved that verse with its uplifting message –living through some of our worst experiences can ultimately give us the platform to bring someone else hope. We offer the perspective and expertise of our own personal experience. No one else can understand another’s suffering quite like someone who has faced that same suffering. Being in their presence affirms that you are not alone.

Later that day, as I reflected on the conversation we’d had, I kept thinking of the life lessons we had touched upon. I was surprised to realize that simply by repeating out loud what I already knew to be true, I’d been reminded of a few basic truisms. Their wisdom becomes even more compelling when a loved one’s death underscores the reality of life’s brevity. Let me repeat them here, then briefly offer context:

-share your unique self,

-help one person each and every day, and

-don’t wait to go to Paris.

Truism One. This one is a reminder that each of us is gifted with particular strengths that we can use to benefit others and rise to become our best selves. To use a color metaphor, rather than attempt to blend in with everyone else (with the result that all would be a muddy brown), hold onto your unique perspective and contribution. The world is beautiful because it reflects the entire spectrum, allowing for depth, perspective, and contrast. So, whatever color is inside you, stay true to its light and allow it to shine out on those around you. Your individual gifts enhance the whole.

Truism Two. Help another person. Every. Single. Day. Make it non negotiable. Become the one of whom it may be said that in spite of life's attempts to knock her down, she chose to love others in tangible ways. It doesn’t have to be something big. Holding open a door, sending a text of encouragement, making a phone call, sharing time for coffee, or taking a moment to acknowledge the cashier checking out your groceries are each ways to help another. All it takes is the deliberate choice to look for opportunities to serve rather than wait to be served.

Truism Three. Most of us tend to procrastinate when it comes to doing that thing we long to do. We tell ourselves that there will be time in the future. Besides, it’s impractical or inconvenient or too expensive right now. Next year we will be braver, have saved more money, lost weight, or gotten someone else settled. We forget that the pages of our life keep turning and with seemingly increased velocity as we get older. Then one day an unexpected plot twist is revealed. An accident happens or you get the diagnosis or maybe someone dies, and the tragic storyline cannot be erased and rewritten. So, precious reader, consider the advice of one who knows the cost of offering it. Don’t wait to say you’re sorry or to tell someone that you love them. Don’t wait to go to Paris.

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Having been awoken by this cuddly dictator, how often do I throw back the covers with a smile, thankful and eager to welcome the new day? Well…this is among the things that I want to work on in 2025. Specifically, I want to–

Welcome each and every day, even the mundane and difficult ones, with a cheerful attitude.

Recognize that waking up Today is a gift from God.

Remember that each morning offers a fresh start.

Would you like to join me in seeking a similar attitude adjustment? Here are two bits of inspiration that demonstrate why you should.

FIRST: The first is from the movie About Time. (If you haven’t seen it, it’s a terrific movie with actors Bill Nighy and Rachel McAdams.) This film shows how we can wring joy out of ordinary moments in ordinary days. The main character is Tim, a charming but slightly awkward young man who discovers on his 21st birthday that he has inherited the ability to time travel backwards. He decides to use this secret power not to gain riches but to get a girlfriend. By repeatedly returning to situations where his social awkwardness messed things up, he’s able to win the heart of Mary and find true love. In the end, however, Tim and thus the audience conclude that you don’t need time travel to find every-day opportunities to uplift those around you.

The director does this by showing Tim using time travel to repeat the same events on the same day, yet each time with a different attitude. When Tim focuses on himself, ignoring people around him, the everyday frustrations are obvious and tension builds. But when he has an other-oriented mindset or even takes a moment to interact positively with a stranger, then the whole scene’s outcome is transformed. Those Tim encounters react positively, his smile causes others to smile, and hope is passed on. This movie inspires us to be the sort of people who generate similar good feelings in our wake. The main requirement seems to be the choice to be cheerful regarding how we approach the challenges of each day. Yes, apparently cheerfulness is a choice and one I can work on making a lot more often.

SECOND: Too often we forget that we don’t have endless days. I’m thinking of a delightful man I met early last year. We spoke for only a few minutes but he made a big impression on me because of his warm and bubbly personality. Recently I was shocked to learn that he had a fatal heart attack in December. I felt a sadness that wasn’t based on my relationship to this man, but on the knowledge that his beautiful life was cut short. He had been so vibrant, was well loved, and was managing a thriving business. His death focused my attention on the importance of not wasting my days.

Sometimes we need to be reminded that short term needs, objectives, or worries should be placed in context. Will this thing matter in a month or two? If not, then perhaps devoting significant time or energy to it Today is a misplaced priority as well. In effect it’s a version of the questions we ought to ask ourselves periodically: what truly matters and what does a well lived life look like?

For me, using Today as an opportunity to positively impact other people is an important element in both a life well lived and what matters. In the petri dish of life I want to be the antibiotics encircling and containing the germs of loneliness, discouragement, or unkindness that constantly threaten so many. I’d like my life to reflect loving intention, a compassionate heart, and a generous spirit. To do this I intend to recommit to welcoming each day cheerfully, seeing Today as a gift from God, and remembering that the morning offers a fresh start.

What about you? As the Pulitzer Prize winning poet Mary Oliver once asked…What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

I’m a planner. I generally like to look ahead, set goals, figure out the steps, and make and complete checklists. By starting in a particular direction I build momentum that then helps propel me forward to the “ta da” of completing whatever it was I set out to do.

What about you? Maybe planning and checklists are just not your thing. Even so, wouldn't it be nice to accomplish something meaningful in 2025? If your answer was yes, then may I offer a thought for consideration as well as a small challenge?

Consider this…imagine the possibilities if each and every one of us decided to perform a deliberate act of kindness or generosity for another person on a weekly basis. The acts I have in mind wouldn’t require a significant commitment, but at the same time they should be something beyond what you do on a regular basis anyway. At the conclusion of the year, you could look back and know that one thing you accomplished was to have made your world a better place. Your 52 contributions affected someone else’s day in a positive way. In the process, it is likely that your own heart will have grown.

The exciting thing to ponder is the cumulative effect. If, for instance, 20 people agreed and faithfully performed such deeds each week throughout the year, that would infuse over 1000 additional acts of kindness into the world. Since we are bombarded on a daily basis with news of tragedies, conflict, and violence, making the effort to do acts of kindness is one way to counteract these malevolent forces. What’s more, each time we offer an act of kindness or generosity there is often a ripple effect. The recipient may be encouraged to pass on what they received or, depending on their circumstances, they may simply gain the strength to hang on for another day.

Your investment in this challenge doesn’t have to be huge. It just needs to be deliberate. Of course you could repeat the same act each week, mix it up, or add some ideas of your own.

Here are a few suggestions for things you could do.

Send a card or text to someone telling them what you admire about them

Say something nice to your cashier

Pre-pay for the coffee of the person behind you

Leave a thank you note for your mail deliverer or trash hauler

Open doors for others and smile at them

Leave an encouraging message for your spouse, roommate, or a co-worker

Think of someone who might be lonely and invite them to something

Flying somewhere? Bring chocolates or a pre-wrapped salty treat for the flight crew

Bring in your neighbor’s trash cans

Donate your time or $$ to a good cause

Make, write, draw, or create something for someone else and give it to them

Ask God to open your eyes to those who might need help or encouragement

My hope is that you would decide to dig in and get started right away. If, however, you need a little nudge, let me share two quotes, one by the Swiss-American psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, and the other by author, motivational speaker, and special education professor Leo Buscaglia.

“I have never met a person whose greatest need was anything other than real, unconditional love. You can find it in a simple act of kindness toward someone who needs help. There is no mistaking love, it is the common fiber of life, the flame that heats our soul, energizes our spirit and supplies passion to our lives.” – Elisabeth Kübler-Ross

“Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around.” – Leo Buscaglia

I personally have experienced small acts of kindness that have stayed with me for years. Perhaps you too can remember when some little thing someone did for you restored your faith, offered inestimable comfort, or lifted your spirits. May you use that memory or whatever is in your heart to make a positive difference in the lives of those who cross your path.

Jennifer