I went to buy Advent candles today. It was a big box store. The young employee had no idea what I was talking about.

“What are Advent candles?” she said, looking at me as though lobsters were crawling out my ears.

“Advent candles,” I clarified, using hand gestures. “They’re purple.”

This confused her. “You mean, like, candles for little girls' rooms?”

I have been celebrating Advent since I was a child. Long ago, you could buy Advent candles at Kmart, or Walmart, or anywhere for that matter. Back in the day, my grandmother bought our Advent candles at the drug store along with her Bengay and her unfiltered Camels. But times have changed.

One recent article explained how some stores are choosing not to celebrate “Christmas.” The article referenced the ongoing debate on whether stores should say “Happy holidays” versus “Merry Christmas,” or if the term “Christmas” should be discouraged altogether.

“Saying happy holidays is more inclusive,” remarked one store executive. “We don’t want to unnecessarily exclude shoppers by blatantly referencing religion.”

I wonder what employees say after someone sneezes.

So anyway,

usually I buy Advent candles online each year. I was supposed to do that this year, but I got distracted online and accidentally ended up ordering another guitar.

Still, Advent is an important celebration among my people. It’s part of my upbringing. I can remember lighting my first Advent candle in church pre-school. Miss Jeannie handed me a really long matchstick and sermonized in a reverent voice about baby Jesus, shepherds, and angels singing “Gloria is eating Chelsea’s mayo!” And that’s when she discovered her sleeve was on fire. I was held back for two years.

“Advent candles,” I explained to the employee again. “They’re purple candles, with one pink candle.”

“You mean like Jewish candles?”

“No. These are for Christmas.”

“American Christmas or Jewish Christmas?"

“Jewish people don’t celebrate Christmas.”

“They don’t?”

Oy vey.

So, the young…

She was a foster kid. Grew up in a group home. A place where you basically lived in a bunk. If you were lucky, you got to shower before the other kids drained the hot water tank.

Christmastime was especially difficult. Everyone else was with families. Meantime, you got various Dollar Tree toys and food on paper plates.

Our story takes place when she was 14. She was tall and gangly. Brunette hair, bad teeth. Her mom and dad were incarcerated. Neither family wanted her.

As it happens 14-year-old foster kids are not easily adopted. Potential parents would visit the home, meet the kids, and they never even asked her name.

Men wanted sons. Women wanted babies to cuddle, someone to call them Mommy. A 14-year-old was like a geriatric dog at the shelter. Too old to adopt.

It was one December when she was taking an after-school class that life changed. She was in Spanish club. She was pretty good at the

languages, but really, Spanish Club was just a way to prevent herself from going back to the group home for a few hours each week.

She was exiting the school, on her way to the carline, when she saw something by the dumpster. It was small and fuzzy. A little animal. Not a newborn, but a puppy nonetheless.

The animal was eating from a discarded fast-food container. One of those paper boxes a Big Mac comes in. I’m lovin’ it.

She approached the feral dog, which—let the record show—is a good idea. You never approach a strange canine who is involved in eating unless you want to be dessert.

But the animal was so little, so cute, she wasn’t scared, and the dog didn’t seem to know how to be aggressive yet. The puppy walked right to her.

It was a girl puppy. Brown all over with white…

I was eleven. I was invited to try out for the Christmas community choir. A lady visited our church to conduct the auditions.

I had been practicing for three weeks, learning the lyrics to “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”

My father, the welder, took me to the audition after work. Before it was my turn to sing, he gave me a pep talk.

“Knock it outta the park,” he said.

I sang for the lady in the wire-rimmed glasses who held the clipboard. She was less than impressed with me.

“Stop singing!” she shouted, interrupting my song. “We’re looking for something else, I’m sorry. Next please?”

My father stormed forward from the back of the church. He looked like he was on his way to pick a fight with an umpire.

“Now wait a minute, Lady,” he said. “I demand you let my boy finish his song. He’s been working on it for weeks. What kind of heartless woman doesn’t let a kid finish his song?”

The woman’s mouth dropped open. She looked at my father like he’d lost

his mind.

She sat down and asked me to sing it again. I cleared my throat. I sang. I did much better than before. It wasn’t a home run, per se, but more like an infield single.

I got the part.

I was fifteen feet tall. Until that day I’d never done anything special with my life—unless you counted the noises I could make with my underarms. I was a chubby kid with awkward features, I was neither handsome, nor athletic.

But now I was a soloist.

It took months of preparation to get it right. Each day after school, I would rehearse for my mother in the kitchen while she made supper.

On the night of the performance, my father arrived home an hour late. He wheeled into our driveway, kicking gravel behind his tires.

My mother flew off…

The Cracker Barrel is slammed. And loud. Inside, there isn’t much in the way of elbow room. There are heaps of people. And I am trying to master the wooden Triangle Peg game.

The object of this game, of course, is simple. Leave the fewest pegs remaining on the triangle as possible. Finish a game with only one peg is left; you are a NASA-level genius. Two pegs; you are moderately clever. Four pegs; your parents are first cousins.

I love Cracker Barrel. But then, I have a long history with this institution. I’ve eaten at Cracker Barrels from Beaverton, Oregon, to Prattville, Alabama. I’ve eaten here on Thanksgiving, the day I graduated college, the morning after my wedding, and the day after my father died. The food suits me.

The overhead music always has steel guitar in it. The people in the giftshop always ask how you’re doing. And if you’re bored, you can always embarrass your wife by buying a Davy Crockett hat and wearing it into the dining room.

Today, an elderly couple

is sitting next to me as I fiddle with the peg game. The old man is skinny. She is frail. They are shoulder to shoulder.

The man is wearing a hospital bracelet. His entire lower leg is in a medical brace. His face is bruised purple. There is dried blood on his forearms. He is resting his head onto the old woman’s shoulder because it looks like he’s been through hell itself.

She is helping him drink his Coke with a straw.

“Thank you, Judy,” he says between sips.

She just pats his head.

On the other side of the dining room is a table of paramedics. They are young, wearing buzz cuts, cargo pants, radios mounted on their shoulders. Their eyes are drooping, the coffee evidently isn’t helping. It looks like they’ve had a long night.

I eavesdrop on their conversation:

“What’re…

You’re going to make it.

I know you don’t feel great right now. I know you’re having a crappy day. A crappy month. A crappy decade. I know this isn’t your best life.

I know your whole world is falling apart. I know your father is dying of pancreatic cancer. I know your daughter just passed away from a drug overdose. I get it.

Your grandchild has life threatening bone cancer. Your car was repossessed last night. Your dog died. You’re ill.

Your husband cheated on you with a younger woman. Your dad has a neurological disease. Your mother passed away. Your mom died by suicide. Your son is going blind.

You have breast cancer. You’ve lost everything. You’re a young man who was convicted by a jury of your peers, and now you’re probably going to prison. You are an alcoholic, and you don’t know what to do about it.

You’re scared. You don’t sleep. You don’t eat. The doctor is suggesting chemo.

At night, sometimes, you lie there wondering what the point is. Why keep living? Why live a life that’s nothing but pain? You’re starting

to lose steam. You’re starting to get tired.

I don’t blame you. But—and I want you to listen to me closely here—you are going to make it.

I actually believe this. Wholeheartedly. In fact, I would bet a million dollars on it.

Sadly, I don’t have a million bucks because I am an English major. So—let just me empty my wallet here—I will happily bet $11 cash that you are going to be okay.

Now, I know what you’re thinking:

“This schmuck doesn’t even know me. How the heck can he know whether I’ll be okay? He’s just writing a bunch of hyper-emotional B.S. He doesn’t know my life.”

And you know what? To be frank, you’re absolutely right. For starters, I DON’T know anything, so how can I know whether you’ll…