I hope you have a good day. The entire day. Start to finish. Not the Best Day Ever—that’s too much excitement crammed into twenty-four hours.
No. Just a plain old, good day.
I hope you wake up to smells you love. Like: donuts, bacon, a fireplace, or halitosis from a kitty-litter-eating bloodhound.
I hope you have nothing pressing to do. No schedule. No appointments.
We do too much, you know. Long ago, our ancestors practiced the noble art of being worthless. A lot of folks won’t do that anymore.
Today, I hope you’re as worthless as a waterproof dishrag.
I hope you remember your ancestors. Your grandparents, and their grandparents—even if you’ve never met them.
I hope you think about the simple things they gave us. A hamburger with pickles. Whittling. Will Rogers. Baseball games. Pajamas. Smacking ketchup bottles. Hank Williams music playing on kitchen radios. Childhood porches.
I hope you close your eyes and recall the best pieces of childhood. The days when you played hard, and the best games happened in backyards.
I hope your smartphone quits working—just for a few hours. I hope the absence of a digital screen takes you outdoors. I hope you hear the sounds of the earth all at once.
I hope you sit for hours with nothing but a cold drink and your best ideas.
I hope you meet someone who inspires you. A kid who’s had kidney cancer. A girl who got pregnant too young, who just finished nursing school.
A woman who lost her husband to an overdose. A child whose daddy is in prison. A hillbilly who put himself through the GED course. A homeless woman, selling parched peanuts. An EMT. A school custodian. A lonesome grandmother. Anyone who’s adopted a child.
I hope you look at them and feel proud. After all, they are the only ones worth being proud about. People like them. People like you.
Heroes aren’t people on television. They aren’t celebrities who have designer clothes and silicone thighs. Neither are they the sorts of fools who use teleprompters and beg for your support. They aren’t athletes, news anchors, televangelists, pop stars, or reality-TV contestants with pink hair.
And they certainly aren’t the kind of folks who do acts of charity for film crews.
No. You are the hero. You, the single mother in a single-wide trailer. The school teacher in Brewton. The woman delivering pizza to the Pensacola cancer ward every Tuesday.
The man buying KFC for the homeless veteran in Baton Rouge. The volunteer greeter at Children’s Hospital in Birmingham.
You are the real thing. I know it might be hard to believe, but it’s true whether you believe it or not.
The things you’ve gone through, the things you’re about to go through, the things you’re going through now; there’s meaning to them all.
Your life means something. Today means something. This millisecond means something.
I don’t know you, but if you’re reading this right now, we’re here together. I wish I could sprinkle fairy dust over you and remove every bad moment that’s ever happened to you. But I can’t.
So this will have to do.
I hope you have a good day. You deserve it.