May you kiss a baby today. A fat one. Maybe press your nose against a soft, newborn scalp and smell heaven.
And I hope you eat—food, not the baby. I hope you shovel in so much Christmas cooking it makes your vision blur and heart race.
Afterward, take an after-dinner stroll with someone special.
Maybe look at stars and think things like: how big is the universe? What color is happiness? Or: how many cups of sugar does it take to get to the moon?
Find someone to kiss; you'll have your answers.
Today, I pray you look over your life without pain. May you remember things that shaped you—good and bad. Things you lost—great and small. People who hurt you—friends and greasy pricks.
May Nancy feel the spirit of Mitch, her late, Cajun husband of fifty-two years. And may the family of the deceased two-year-old believe in goodwill toward men.
May under-confident boys discover fishing. May over-confident ones discover catching jack squat.
May your television stay off. And I pray your smartphone spends the holiday on a nightstand—unless,
of course, you're talking to someone important.
Each year on Christmas Eve, my father used to open an address book. He'd make phone calls to distant family, old friends, plumbers, electricians, coworkers, neighbors, enemies.
I attempt the same thing during the holidays, but I'm terrible at it. I'm not good on the phone.
Last year, I texted an old fishing buddy. We weren't close. The response was: “This is his son. Don is no longer with us. Merry X-mas.”
I also texted my old boss. He replied: “Thanks for reaching out, Sean! You were always my favorite employee!”
I'm touched. Maybe his favoritism is what compelled him to give me two pay cuts and buy himself a brand new, showroom-quality, one-ton truck.
May you accept things. Happy things. Unhappy things. Simple things which confuse you. The sorts of…