This could have been a post about terror, or hatred. It could have been a post about international politics and religion. But for the sake of my own spirit's health, it is a post about two women facing the news of a tragedy across an ocean and across thousands of miles.

Not everyone is ready to celebrate. The holidays are not a time of frolic for everyone. Some people will do just fine at every time of the year, except the holidays. For them, the holidays carry a special burden. For some, it will be the first holiday without a special loved one. For others, it is a time of financial worry. Others may be facing illness, or heartbreak, or be overtaken with memories of holidays past that will never be again. Some may just be lonely. Children may have moved on to other states, beyond the reach of a visit. The nest may be empty. Parents may be divorcing.

The world is such a big place, with so many big troubles. Even for those who want to do something useful, or helpful, it is impossible to know how to find the right place to begin, and often puzzling to discern what to do once you have found that place. How could you possibly do enough?

November 22, 1963. I was in the auditorium of Westfield Junior High School at a "pep rally" for our school's football team. The cheerleaders were bouncing and cheering and waving their pompoms The marching band was playing. Suddenly our principal came on stage right after a cheer, carrying a stand microphone with him. It made the usual screeches and blips as he struggled to get it working. Something was wrong. A couple of teachers were on stage with him; and they were crying. Something was wrong.

I do not know how it happens, but I keep running into angels. There I am, going about my day, feeling like I need a lift, and voila someone says just what I needed to hear. Or the right song plays on the radio. Or I meet some stranger who lays some deep wisdom on me and then I never see them again. I suppose I could consider these just happy accidents of life. Maybe they are.