The most common types of Christmas trees—the Firs (Balsam, Douglas, and Fraser), the Pines (Scotch, White and Colorado Blue), and the Spruces (Norway and Blue)—are already stunning and majestic as they stand in fields or on mountainsides unadorned. With branches of various length and shades of green and blue, needles either pointy or smooth—the trees are magnificent gifts of nature.
A field of Christmas trees dusted with newly-fallen snow is about as glorious a winter scene as one could find. Mother Nature is nothing if not impeccable in her own sense of design.
So it all makes me wonder: Why decorate an already perfect, exquisite creation? Why do we have to embellish trees with lights, ribbon, tinsel, and brightly-colored ornaments in all shapes and sizes. Why the need to “dress up” something that’s already a perfectly fine example of a tree?
The answer, as I see it, is an easy one. We decorate Christmas trees to make them more colorful and festive for the holidays. Ornamental lights turn a Christmas tree into a twinkling, blinking version of itself. And for many, decorating the Christmas tree is a family tradition.
I’ve been thinking, too, about how the style and colors we choose in decorating a tree are an expression of our own creativity and personality. In a way, then, we’re presenting a bit of ourselves on our tree with the ornaments we choose … a thought which leads me to ask this:
Especially during this time of year, could we adorn ourselves with a different kind of ornament?
Could we “wear” ornaments that show the very best of us … ornaments such as extra kindness, patience, gentleness, forgiveness, and tolerance? Could we give a little and let go of a lot? Could we put the best of ourselves on display over the holidays so that those around us can experience a bright, shining version of who we are inside?
Please know that you, my friend, are already a gift, a miracle, an utterly remarkable being without lifting a finger, saying a word, or achieving a thing. Just like the unadorned tree on a mountainside, the you who God created is already someone of beauty and intelligence. The essential you cannot be improved upon.
In music an ornament is an embellishing note. It’s not part of the essential melody or harmony, but serves only to add a little something extra to the main lines of music.
So, I speak of these personal embellishments not as qualities that make us whole, but as graces that complete us in the most loving of ways.
And yet, we also recognize and understand that not everyone among us can be more of anything, especially more joyful, this time of year. The challenges, stresses, and grief people feel throughout the year can feel particularly acute over the holidays. Many of us have been there and understand how hard it can be to pretend “joyful” when, instead, we feel sorrowful. May God bless you in a special way if that’s where you are this December. Please know—You are loved here. You are cherished here. I pray that over these holidays you will experience the joy of someone reaching out to you with gentleness, kindness, good will, and good cheer.
I send my love and thanks to each of you who have signed onto my newsletter; many thanks, in advance, to those who sign on as we head into the new year. I’m so very grateful to all for your time and for your interest in what I express in this space. Please let me know if there are any particular topics you’d like me to write about.
This will be my last newsletter of 2019; I’ll be back in January. Till then, please take good care.
I could tell you that this is a story about our latest senior rescue dog, but a former memoir teacher, Marion Roach Smith, would take issue with that.
Marion would remind me that good memoir (and I do consider many of my newsletters to be memoiristic) “takes on something universal and uses you as the illustration of that larger idea.”
Today’s newsletter, then, is really about love and healing.
But first, some background.
Earlier this year I posted a story on my website titled, “Dogs: A Love Story,” which gave a history of our family’s dog ownership. All but our first dog, Abbey, have been rescues.
I included a photo at the bottom of the post from Christmas 2017, which was one week after we had adopted Contessa, a twelve pound, senior Chihuahua mix. Tessa (because why wouldn’t I nickname her after me?) was already about thirteen-years-old when she came to live with us and had numerous health issues. I honestly didn’t think she’d last for more than a few months; nor did our vet who, on my first visit with Tessa said, “Well, let’s just try to keep her happy and comfortable.” Tessa surprised us all and lived until this past July 24th—twenty months after I first brought her home to join her furry brothers, Enzo and Toby.
When Tessa’s age and health issues finally got the best of her, Rick and I made the decision to have her euthanized (a horribly sterile word, I think, for an experience that’s filled with so much compassion, kindness, gentleness, and emotion).
I struggled with the decision for days, until the afternoon of July 24th when the struggle suddenly ended. With Tessa asleep on my lap out on our back porch on a lovely summer day, I finally felt at peace with it, and the timing, the day, felt right. Not good, but right. I pray that we did right by her.
Rick and I had never considered ourselves “Chihuahua people” … until Tessa. And then we couldn’t see one without our hearts melting. In August I gave Rick a birthday card with a Chihuahua on it; his eyes got moist. Anytime either of us saw a Chihuahua, we’d say to the other, “Who does that remind you of?” We needed to get a grip, which to me meant only one thing—we had to get another.
It began with a photo on Instagram from Susie’s Senior Dogs, a fabulous 501c3 non-profit that encourages and celebrates the adoption of senior dogs.
His name: Poncho, 14-years-old. “He’s truly the best little guy,” wrote his foster mom, Alyssa, on the last line of his bio. Alyssa’s a loving and devoted volunteer with the CLAWS (Closter Animal Welfare Society), in New Milford, NJ.
I was sitting up in bed at the time, staring at Poncho’s picture and reading his bio on my cell phone. Stared some more, read the bio again. I knew what I had to do next.
I turned to my not quite asleep husband and said, “Look at this sweet face!” The words “sweet face” came out in an elongated and ooey-gooey way that Rick knew could only mean one thing: We would probably soon be adopting that sweet face.
And we did! On September 22, 2019, Poncho became an Enterline, joining his furry brothers, Enzo and Toby. And Alyssa was right—Poncho is the best little guy!
I told you at the start that this story isn’t really about our latest rescue dog; that it’s about love and healing. Now let me tell you why.
As I was thinking about this story and starting to jot down a few notes, something kept nagging at me. At first, everything I put down on paper had to do with our dogs, which is all well and good—I love them dearly. But I felt as if there was more there, that I needed to go a bit deeper.
Dog-walking provided a good time to sort through what eventually boiled down to one question: What is it about me that makes me want to keep adopting rescue dogs, especially senior dogs? I know that it’s about more than just trying to do something good in the world.
As I walked and started creating a mental list, I sensed a common denominator. My answers seemed to be less about goodwill and more about what’s good forme.
Maybe I need them more than they need me, I wondered. At the very least, I need them just as much.
“Who rescued who?” We see this popular saying everywhere—on magnets, bumper stickers, coffee mugs … so much so that it’s easy to glance over it. But this question is so spot on for me personally. Truth is, I’d feel a very large hole in my life without them.
I’ve had dogs in one shape and size or another for most of my life. Never have I relied on them more for my own well-being than in the past ten years as I’ve worked on healing from trauma. I am truly so blessed by them.
Feeling down, don’t feel like talking, and don’t want to pretend otherwise? Over comes Enzo, our black Lab, with his big, sweet, brown eyes that say, “It’s okay, Mom. Just scratch my head and you’ll feel better.” So, I do. And I feel better. Or Toby, with his scruffy white and caramel-colored Jack Russell head and long Dachshund body, will do his little dance that begs, “Can we please go play ball right now?!!!” So, we do. And it forces me out of my rut.
And now our dear, ten-pound Poncho, who, if I’m stretched out on the sofa or in bed, will crawl up on top of me, so close and tight that he becomes like another layer of skin (in fairness, Poncho does that to Rick too). Poncho, and every dog, really, is so trusting and absent any agenda accept to love and be loved.
But just about any friendly dog can make you feel better, get you up and moving, or attach themselves to you like avocado on toast. The question is, why am I so enamored by senior dogs? I think it comes down to this:
If I’m going to rely on them so much, then I want the dogs who are going to need me the most.
Maybe deep down inside that’s the deal I make with them. “You be there for me, buddy, and I swear I’ll be there for you … ten times over.”
Those who know me also know that I have a life filled with the love of family and friends. I wouldn’t be where I am now without them. With that said, I hope none of the good people in my life will be offended when I say—never have I experienced such pure, unadulterated love than the love given by our precious senior pups: Enzo, Charlie, Tessa, and now Poncho. And although only five-years-old, Toby is quite the little lover-boy too.
I can’t save every senior dog, but every senior dog I’ve saved has saved a part of me.
Poncho, Toby, and Enzo (back row)
WANT TO LOVE and BE LOVED??? OPEN YOUR HEART and HOME TO A SENIOR DOG!!!
Some Resources: Susie’s Senior Dogs: susiesseniordogs.com C.L.A.W.S.: clawsadopt.org Angels Among Us: angelsrescue.org All 4 Paws Rescue: all4pawsrescue.com Castaway Critters: castawaycritters.org Harrisburg Area Human Society: humanesocietyhbg.org American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals: aspca.org/donate
March 5, 2010 — Passing of our twelve-and-a half-year-old black Labrador, Abbey.
March 20, 2017 — Passing of our thirteen-year-old Schnauzer-Poodle, Charlie.
If dogs could read calendars, I’d understand if the hair on our dogs’ backs went up whenever we flipped the calendar from February to March. It probably explains why my pet emotions run high in March, and explains my need to write about them before the end of the month.
There are dogs owners who love their dogs, and then there are dog owners, like my family and me, who LOVE their dogs. Actually, most of the dog owners I know fall into the latter category. And there are lots of us out there.
125,000 of us have followed Pumpkin the dachshund on Instagram, and grieved along with his owner, a lovely young lady in California, when five-year-old Pumpy died from lymphoma earlier this year. Hundreds of messages of sympathy were posted. Likewise, we all recently rejoiced when Pumpy’s momma introduced us to Parker, an equally adorable, longer-haired “hot dog” puppy. (See “pumpkinandparker” on Instagram.)
There’s a two-minute video titled, “So God Made a Dog.” Over a hundred-thousand shares. (click here to view) Be prepared for a smile, a lump in your throat, and for your heart to swell.
Most of us have a favorite dog—or cat, ferret, rabbit, horse, fish, or parrot—story. Our pets get to us. Besides dogs, my family has had a cat, fish, and dwarf hamster. We’ve loved them all (not sure about my husband and the cat), but probably not all in the same way … a deep, deep down way … that we’ve loved our dogs. Dogs are just different. They return our love with such enthusiasm; they love us enthusiastically and unconditionally when we don’t even deserve it.
Which likely explains the tremendous grief we feel when they die. But more on that later. First, a little Enterline canine history … or a tribute of sorts to dogs gone by and to those currently offering us their unconditional love.
I should first explain that, prior to having dogs, and even upon first bringing them home, our two kids were terrified of them. I’m talking “run down the block away from them, hollering the whole time” afraid. (It was a fear that Matt and Nicole probably inherited from me. I can still remember the time, as a single-digit-year-old, I scaled a neighbor’s backyard fence into the arms of my Aunt Nora to get away from another neighbor’s charging, but I think otherwise friendly, German Shepherd.) Rick and I decided the best way to help our kids get over their fear was to actually get a dog. Exposure therapy of sorts, I guess you could say.
Abbey, a black Labrador, was our first family pet. We brought her home in August 1997, from a litter hatched on a farm located about forty-five minutes away from our suburban home in Harrisburg. She was an adorable five-week-old, five pound runt of the litter. The only one in her litter with a white patch on her chest; otherwise she was a fluffy jet black.
Nicole and Matt, ages six and four at the time, started crying a chorus of “No, no no!!!” when I proposed sitting between them with the puppy on the back seat of our Ford Taurus station wagon for the ride home. I considered the “tough love” approach (“Okay guys … get over it!”). Instead, I heeded their protest and rode home on the front passenger seat, with my husband driving, and our five-pound fur ball in a small cardboard box on my lap. She looked ferocious … when she wasn’t sleeping or licking me.
On a hot and sticky Saturday night a few days after Abbey’s homecoming, we heard reports of Princess Diana’s death in a car crash in a tunnel in Paris. I had taken up the task that evening of walking our new puppy up and down the block, trying to teach her to, “go potty.” Even when she did the deed and I made a fuss over her success, it was hard to find happiness in a dog, when the whole world was starting to mourn such a shocking loss.
But we did find happiness in Abbey for twelve and a half years, minus all the times when barking made her happy. Much to our ears’ dismay, Abbey found great joy in barking … at doorbells ringing, of course, and anything she saw from her vantage point at the front window: people, dogs, people walking dogs, cats, dogs chasing cats, deer, rabbits, leaves, and the errant plastic bag or food wrapper that flew by.
Abbey didn’t miss much, which is a good quality in a watch dog. But I suspect our version of one would have been more likely to roll over for a belly rub from an intruder than she would have been to scare them off Cujo-style, with jowls drawn back, frothy beads of saliva spewing, and fangs protruding. Fortunately, we never had to find out.
Abbey had a dislike for professional football, especially the Philadelphia Eagles. The Eagles weren’t very good at the time (recent success aside, I guess they weren’t very good for a long time), and Abbey fed off my husband’s high stress level whenever the team played. I’m not sure who irritated me more—Abbey for barking, Rick for yelling at her to stop barking, or the Eagles for playing lousy. I usually just left the room.
Despite the strength of her lungs and disdain for the NFL, we dearly loved that dog, including the kids. Abbey had long since dispelled their fears. By the time she passed in March 2010, Nicole was in college and Matt was a high school senior. This sweet creature who, at first, had so cowed them, had helped coax and comfort them through their teen years. The phrase “good and faithful servant” comes to mind. Abbey obviously wasn’t our servant. She was our companion, and in that role she served ever so faithfully.
Next up was Enzo, a black Lab mix, who I named after the main dog character in Garth Stein’s bestseller, The Art of Racing in the Rain.
Enzo was a rebound relationship. It was too quiet in the house after Abbey died. I lasted two months and then decided that we (okay, I) needed another dog. Why was that? What, exactly, was gone, that I needed again so desperately?
It was a presence. Dogs have a presence that our senses get used to and our hearts miss when it’s gone. We see them running after balls and sticks; we hear them barking; we rub their bellies and scratch behind their ears; we feel them snuggle up against us; they lick us; we smell their foul breath when they get too close. Dogs satisfy that part of us that needs to love and be loved; to forgive and be forgiven; to protect and be protected; and to laugh and play.
When I brought Enzo home from the shelter, we had that presence in the house once again. But it took a while to appreciate Enzo’s unique presence.
Enzo, a black Labrador mix, had had a rough start in life, just like all shelter dogs. He was about seven-months-old when the Harrisburg police picked him up while he was roaming the downtown streets and took him to the Humane Society. He spent his next five months there. The day I spotted him in May 2010, he was obviously underweight; his ribs were protruding. He would pace slowly and nervously in his pen, with his head lowered, and then, all of a sudden, he’d start running in a tight circle. After a while, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“I’ll take this one,” I said while pointing toward the spinning dog.
“Are you sure?” replied Lucy, one of the shelter employees.
I wasn’t. But I was sure the dog in front of me needed love and a home, and I had both to give.
The first twenty-four hours of Enzo’s new life in our home made it clear that he was a socially backward bundle of nerves and was still traumatized by his prior life on the streets.
He didn’t bark until day two, when he saw his reflection on the glass of the china cabinet door. He ran away from the sound of the garage door and was terrified at the sight and sound of the mailbox being opened. Enzo had no clue what steps were all about, so for the first few weeks he did a combination slide-tumble down steps and an awkward crawl back up them. And to this day, he recoils whenever we’re on a walk and a truck goes by, the memory of dodging vehicles on the city streets still fresh.
There were times after we brought Enzo home when loving him wasn’t easy. Once he learned how to navigate steps, he decided that it would be fun to nip at my feet whenever I climbed steps in front of him. I started carrying a spray bottle to fend him off.
Enzo made the backyard look like part of a golf course that had been attacked by weekend hackers. His idea of backyard fun (besides chewing it up) was to run across the yard full bore and take a flying leap at me. During one unprepared moment when I had my back to him, his flying leap up onto our back deck knocked me flat on my face and gifted me with bruised ribs to nurse for a few weeks.
For all of his early antics, Enzo has been an awesome dog, very sweet and loving. He went from being our furry Baby Huey to a gentle big brother.
Yes, I eventually decided that Enzo needed a pal.
When I first met Charlie, he, too, was behind bars at the Harrisburg Area Humane Society. He was cowering in the back, right-hand corner of his crate. His eyes were dark, moist, and pierced with fright. His black and silver fur was matted in enough places to conceal the curls we would later discover after his being groomed. (His loving groomer, Andrea, decided that Charlie was a schnoodle, a combination of schnauzer and poodle.)
There was nothing about him that said “special,” except for that look of what he could be with enough love and attention. But how would I ever explain choosing this gnarly-looking dog to the rest of the family. The explanation turned out to be that which explains every great love story: It was devotion and a bond and formed at first sight. Matted hair, rat tail, and bowed legs be damned … this little guy was going to be mine!
The shelter staff had named him Charlie, a name we decided to keep. But, to me, he was also my “Little Man,” a name I often called him. In her memoir,Let’s Take the Long Way Home, Pulitzer Prize-winning author Gail Caldwell describes her feelings the day she brought home her Samoyed puppy, Clementine. Wrote Caldwell: “I had had animals all my life, but never had my heart been seized with such unequivocal love.” That’s what I had found in Charlie
Charlie tolerated other people and dogs. He kind of adored me, though, and the feeling was mutual. There was just something about that dog. It was as if God had taken one of my ribs and created a furry little version of me. I saw some of my soul in him. Charlie’s groomer saw it too. Each time I took Charlie in for a haircut, she would say, “There’s something special between you two.” For some reason I would always reply with, “Really? You think so?” But I knew she was right.
For such a small thing (about 20 pounds), Charlie knew how to stand up for himself. He would growl and snap at ninety-five-pound Enzo whenever the big lug came within a foot of his bowl. Enzo was such a sweet-natured thing … he always backed off.
My Little Man wasn’t able to run very well … hardly ever did. Except when I came through the door. Then he couldn’t get from point A (wherever he was) to point B (me) fast enough. Outside, I never had to use a leash with him. From day one I could always trust that he wasn’t going anywhere. We both just knew—we were a team.
Why all the gushing about my relationship with Charlie? I use it as an example of the bond some of us have with our dogs. I know that I’m far from alone in this. For many of us, there’s “the one” who steals our heart and never lets go.
Until we have to let them go.
We never knew Charlie’s exact age. He looked old when I brought him home. Add the five years he had with us, and who knows … maybe he was around twelve or thirteen. Maybe even fourteen.
I was out of town the day he started having seizures. He died in my arms on our way to the vet the day after I arrived home. As Rick drove and I cradled Charlie, pressing him to my chest, I could feel his heartbeat get slower and slower and then stop. I drew him in tighter, breathed in … inhaled him … kissed the curls on top of his head. I said nothing to Rick. For those few seconds, I just wanted it to be Charlie and me, one last time. Finally, I choked out, “He’s gone.” And it was clear, though I already knew, that Rick dearly loved him too.
A few weeks later, I was back at the Harrisburg Area Humane Society with a friend who had also just lost a dog. “I’m only going, Denise, to help you find a dog!” We both knew that was BS, that I wouldn’t be able to resist adopting another if just the right one gave me “the look” and my heart latched on.
We walked up and down well-kept rows of one pen after another. Some dogs barked, some paced, others slept. There were signs saying, “Please Don’t Pet The Dogs!” But we did, at least the friendlier-looking ones … the little bit we could by reaching in a couple of inches (a common transgression, I’m sure, among shelter visitors).
Denise eyed a brindle Cane Corso (we’re talking BIG dog!). I felt some relief at not having found one. It was probably too soon anyway.
Then I came upon the very last pen, and a bright-eyed, short-legged, long-bodied, scruffy-looking thing. He was a four-year-old dachshund/Jack Russell terrier mix. He had “the look.” Even more, he had “the name.”
Given to him by the staff and typed on a sheet hanging in a page protector on the pen … his name—Little Man.
It was as if I had him back … in a different body … in a different color.
A few days later, Rick and I brought Little Man home. We renamed him Toby … because, well … he’s his own little man. He settled right in. Felt like Toby had already lived with us for years. In many ways, Toby picked up right where Charlie left off. The baton had been passed.
The week before Christmas 2017, I brought home a little sister for Enzo and Toby. A thirteen-year-old Chihuahua mix named Contessa. Blind in one eye, almost deaf (you could slam a door shut and most times she wouldn’t even lift her sweet little head off her bed), massive hernia hanging from her belly. Oh, and she wears diapers. Contessa rules the roost and doesn’t put up with any of the boys’ sh … enanigans. She’s been the perfect addition to our merry little band of misfit dogs.
It’s hard to describe the love that fills me whenever I’m surrounded by my dogs. But other dog lovers—probably animal lovers of any kind—you know what I’m talking about. Is it a kind of love that’s different than human love? Yes, of course. But in a truly lovely way.
Perhaps our love for our dogs—our pets—is more pure. It can’t be based on anything they say, or do, or give to us. And let’s face it, we could say the absolute worst things to our dogs, and they would still come charging at us with tails wagging the next time we come through the door, and lick us from head to toe if we let them.
My love for my dogs is based on no conditions at all. Except maybe one—we need each other.
Christmas 2017 with Toby, Contessa, and Enzo
Thinking about adopting a dog? Consider adopting a senior. You won’t find a dog more grateful to have a happy, loving home.
Early last week, as I started gathering my thoughts about today’s newsletter, I found myself stressing over today’s topic, or, actually, topics. The reason boils down to one word: Identity.
I’ve referred to my previous four newsletters as “storyletters”; I’ve shared personal stories rather than news or updates. For today’s newsletter, however, I decided that I wanted to change it up a bit … make it more news than story. But I had a concern. Would “changing it up” also change its identity, even though the “storyletter” identity has only been in place since January 4, 2019?
I posed this question to Dan Blank. Dan is someone whose voice on this and other creativity-related subjects is one I’ve come to listen to and respect. Besides being an author (the terrific Be The Gateway), running his own business (We Grow Media), consulting with clients each day, teaching online courses, and devoting time to his family, Dan has his own weekly newsletter. He is all about connecting with your audience in a personal and genuine way, no matter what your creative outlet is … writing, art, performance, etc.
Dan’s response to my question allayed all of my concerns. He said: “The identity is you … you as a human being. The newsletter is a product of that.” (Thanks, Dan!)
Sooooo … with that in mind, today’s newsletter will be “newsy,” although I guess it’s all just part of “the story of my life.” This chapter can be filed under, “It’s kind of nuts to launch both a newsletter and website during the same month you close on a new house.” It all certainly makes life exciting!
My husband, Rick, and I did, indeed, recently purchase a new home. We’re not moving far, but the new place is closer to family and away from the traffic that delays our trips to see them. It’s not easy to leave our current home, proximity to neighbors & friends, and the community we’ve lived in for thirty-two years. It’s the home where we raised our two children; celebrated birthdays and holidays; mourned loved ones; yelled a little and laughed a lot. We’ve lived thirty-two years of our lives here, with all of the moments and shades of emotion you’d expect over three decades. And pets! Over those years, our home has been made all the more loving by one cat (thanks for putting up with Peanut, Rick), one hamster, and six dogs. So yes, we’ve also cleaned up plenty of “accidents” here too. It has all made our house a home, and we’ll so miss living among our dear friends on Laurel Ridge Drive after we depart sometime this spring.
We’ve been blessed, however, to find another wonderful house, which feels more and more like home to us each time we drop off a few boxes or meet with our contractor to discuss tile, carpet, and paint.
Rick and I looked at one house before deciding to make an offer. Why look at others when you find the one that feels just right … that checks off all your boxes? We didn’t just find another house; we found another home. From our very first visit, we sensed warmth, love, and joy within its walls, all of which, we later learned, were generously extended by the previous owner. We’ll carry it all forward with the family and friends—dogs, too—who will share time and break bread with us there. And we look forward to the sound of little feet running through our new home in the future (but no pressure, kids).
Over these next two months—as we throw things away (Rick) or box them up (me) … as we sell, pack, and move—I hope there will be a family who walks into our current house and says, “This feels like home.” And I can only hope they’ll be as happy here as we have.
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I hope you’ll forgive a complete change in tone.
Incredibly, it’s been a year. A year and a day since seventeen students and staff were shot and killed at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, in Parkland, Florida. About the same number were injured; countless others carry emotional scars from that day.
A television news broadcast the day after the shooting provided what has been the most enduring image of that tragedy for me. I watched as one of the first responders talked about what he encountered at the high school.
Coral Gables Fire Department Lieutenant Laz Ojeda described how he twice rubbed the sternum of wounded and semi-conscious student Madeleine “Maddy” Wofford. Twice he asked Maddy, “Hey, how old are you,” sounding like he was pleading with her for a reply as he told the story. Finally, Maddie answered him. “Seventeen,” she said. Lt. Ojeda’s voice cracked and he wiped away tears as he described the scene to the camera crew.
For the community of Parkland, Florida, it will be long time until February 14th is again synonymous with Valentine’s Day. It’s sadly ironic that, for many, a date meant to celebrate love now commemorates an act of evil. But slowly, in small steps, the pall will gradually lift on February 14th, in Parkland, just as it will on June 12th, in Orlando, Florida; on October 1st, in Las Vegas, Nevada; on November 5th, in Sutherland Springs, Texas; and on December 14th, in Sandy Hook, Connecticut.
That doesn’t mean that any of the lives lost on those dates, or on other dates which memorialize the victims of our nation’s tragedies, will ever be forgotten. Nor does it mean that, for victims’ families, there won’t always be one day out of the year that is especially heavy and heartbreaking.
But, in a nod to faith, hope, and the enduring, fighting human spirit … we heal, albeit imperfectly. And we live on, the best we can.
