Settling in for another out of town stay to help my daughter and her husband with phase two of moving into their new house. Grandma and I got right into watching the kids as their parents are working at the new digs to prep for the movers.

It’s been a rough week. All of the news has hit me hard. Harder than I would have imagined. But I listen to the laughter of these kids (I provoke a lot of it), and I relish the cuddles, and I imagine a better time ahead, yet feel a tightening resolve to make sure that’s possible for these precious innocents. I’d sacrifice anything for this bunch.
I cringe when I think this feels selfish or cocoonish, when I know others are closer to the fire than we currently are. But I hope all across this country that those who are as blessed as our family are also taking stock of what level of sacrifice they are willing to make.
The time has come to stand and be measured accountable.
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I revisit the piece hoping that things might have changed for the better and that the hard hearted might have taken some of Dickens’ message to heart. Sadly, this year I knew that wasn’t going to be the case. But as I suggest in the piece, that’s true every year. This year it is just more openly apparent. As ingrained as it is in most of Western culture, A Christmas Carol doesn’t seem to have the same power to change hearts that the ghosts Dickens conjured did with old Ebenezer.