Only One of Millions

Snowflakes float in silence—not like the torrents of a thunderstorm. No lightning. No thunder. Only the soft glow of millions of ice flakes tumbling out of the darkened sky.

When I was a child, snowflakes falling on a cold afternoon always made decorating the Christmas tree that much cozier. We would have cocoa and dig all of the dusty boxes out of the back of the attic. In each box, like so many other boxes from similar attics around the world, were the ornaments my brother and I crafted from macaroni and glitter, pipe cleaners and cotton balls, construction paper and yarn. Each, my brother and I proudly hung from the branches of our live tree—the smell of pine tingling in my nose, the prickle of the needles stinging my young fingers.

Each year, I claimed setting up the Nativity as my special task. It was Zen. I had to feel inspired as to where to place the shepherds and sheep and cows. As I contemplated the shepherds’ path to the stable, I examined each contour of the figurines’ robes and beards, and in my mind, I miniaturized myself and climbed into that scene with them.

The living room would darken and dim until it was a night of a thousand stars, and I smelled the sweetness of hay. I stood beside these shepherds, and with my own eyes, beheld the miracle of God born as flesh and blood, just a fragile infant not wanting more than the simplicity of a warm place to sleep. The baby’s dark eyes would meet my own, and I would see that he was human, one of the millions of us born throughout the history of the world. He would cry, smile, bleed, eat, shit, breathe, sleep. His humanness would draw me to him more—an infinite deity who weakened himself to prove the depth of his love for me. His sacrifice made his connection to me feel more authentic.

In the larger narrative of the Bible, one word always looms large (and often seems overlooked)--choice. From beginning to end, the notion of choice is woven throughout each book. Each person has a choice whether or not to accept that infant born thousands of years ago was God incarnate or that a man named Jesus was crucified and resurrected. If a person accepts the Bible as the Word of God, then, apparently, God does not want it any other way.

Personally, I love the simple beauty in the concept of choice. How much more valuable do we feel when someone chooses to love us? Choice can never be coerced or forced. Love feels even more powerful when it is on purpose. Our bonds with lovers, friends, even family are held together because we choose to accept each other into our lives and care about each other.

During this time of the Solstice, a season pulsating with our attention to the heavens, the world celebrates miracles, generosity, renewal, and our love for each other in a variety of festivals, holidays, and ceremonies. If only we could all choose to live in peace and respect the choices that each of us make in life.

In my living room as a child, my imagination would return me to normal size, and I would take a sip of lukewarm cocoa, satisfied with the placement of each figure in the Nativity. The furnace vents would rattle; Christmas records spun on the turntable. The feeling of anticipation hung in the air like the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg. I was too young to understand how privileged I was to be nestled securely in a house on such a day.

These days, I try not to take such things for granted and to remember that I am only one of millions—a life, like so many others, eventually to be forgotten, buried beneath the struggles and triumphs of each new generation, swirling for a time in this great blizzard of humanity. Once there was life that made a difference, and it is my choice to celebrate that through kindness, acceptance, and giving to those who only want the simplicity of a warm place to sleep.

Five Things I Would Teach My Younger Self

I had not stepped foot on the Bowling Green State University campus since the day I walked off it dressed in my graduation robes and tassel.

Twelve years later, I finally returned.

University Hall—where I’d had so many classes—was dimly lit, shadowy, the floorboards creaking and footsteps thudding just like they had all of those years ago.

It was a Saturday, and the hallways yawned wide with their weekend abandonment.

I located one of my old classrooms, and as I neared that familiar doorway, I half-expected to see one of my professors standing at the front of the room. I could almost hear my fellow classmates sitting there, flapping notebooks, shuffling papers, discussing homework and exams.

The desks looked the same. I touched my fingertips to the cold tops. The musty smell of the room made my visions palpable.

I had back to back classes in this room one semester. Craft of Fiction blended into Shakespeare. I sat in the first row when you came in the door, the third seat back.

Time travel exists—our memories so forcefully move us, jar us, suspend us between the now and the back then.


I slipped into my old desk and felt space and time collapse. The English teacher I am became the English student I was.

In my mind, I stood at the front of the room and pictured my young self sitting at that desk.

What would this teacher say to that student?

Here are five things I would share with her:

1. Love isn’t what you think it is. You’re going to lose precious years of your life to what you felt was love. You’re going to move from state to state and sacrifice your own ambitions. You’re going to regret it, deeply. Actions always speak louder than words. Two people do not always feel the same way for each other—Love’s hardest lesson. Two people can have genuine care and trust—Love’s greatest joy. You’re worth someone’s time and affection. Most importantly of all, you are worth someone’s respect.

2. Never take Time for granted. Each minute is a valuable gift. Don’t squander them. Clocks are a ghastly invention. Each tick is a silent death. Your grave chases you like the second hand of a clock. It is all too easy to kill time. There are no reset buttons. If you want to do something, do it now. Enjoy the journey; the stopping point will arrive far too soon.

3. Be content with your life. You will never be anyone other than who you are. You are the sum of your experiences, the result of your choices. You will become what you never wanted to be and enjoy it more than you could have believed. Revel in waking up and finding yourself in your own skin again, even as it ages. Stop waiting for your life to begin. Never want to be anywhere else. Never want to be someone prettier, richer, or smarter. Never ignore the simple pleasure of searching across a crowded room to find a familiar pair of eyes searching only for you.

4. Your faith will waver. You will doubt the certainties of your childhood. You will doubt that God exists. You will doubt your prayers are heard. You will spend months barely able to eat, crying yourself to sleep, betrayed by your own body, doubting you can ever reconcile who are you with what you believe in your soul. Was there a Jesus? Did he die on the cross? Is there a Heaven? If you accept earthly happiness, will you even be allowed entrance into Heaven? If your faith didn’t waver, it wouldn’t be worthy enough to believe. The questioning and the struggles provide insight into day to day existence, offer a rare sense of compassion, and grant the ability to accept others in a spirit of peace. Without the wavering, faith can harden into piety. Doubts are the necessary bridge between spirituality and true humility.

5. Not everyone is going to like you. No matter what you do, no matter how kind you try to be, no matter how much effort you expend—there are people who will simply not like you. You will have moments when you will have to be unlikeable, and that’s okay. Do not purposely offend or harm. Be as good as anyone can be, and wish everyone well. Try to smile and tip a hat to everyone. You cannot constantly walk on eggshells. This will be one of your hardest lesson.

As I finished my lecture to my younger self, I felt satisfied at the wisdom I had imparted. But, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a silhouette on the periphery. Another teacher. Her hair grayer, face creased from laughter and sadness. She nodded to me and beckoned me towards her.

I know another lesson awaits me from a wiser teacher. Already, I know in another twelve years, she will teach me that everything I just taught my younger self is foolhardy and the years ahead will render it all a lie.