December 2025 – Witness Marks

The Quiet Joy of Beginning Again

The first official training run for my 5K goal is done. Did I last the full 3.1 miles? No. Did I run the entire time? Also no. But running the entire time is not the point. The point, for now, is solely and exclusively to eventually register for—and complete—an organized 5K. So this morning’s frosty 2.4-mile jog, chock-full of uphill walk breaks, was, in my mind, perfect.

I set out this morning knowing full well that I wouldn’t run the entire time. I planned a route with plenty of hills, focusing on running the downhill portions and briskly walking the uphill parts. It was bitterly cold, hovering right around 20 degrees Fahrenheit. My hands and ears became so numb that I momentarily worried I might do some kind of permanent damage (in packing for our week away, I forgot proper gloves and a hat for running in such cold temperatures).

Regardless of preparation—or lack thereof—slow pace, and shorter-than-ideal distance, I set out this morning to take the first step toward my goal, and I did it.

There was a time when running served primarily as a distraction. A distraction from responsibility, from emotions I didn’t want to confront, and from parts of myself I thought were ugly—not physically, though regular exercise certainly helps with that—but the internal parts of me, parts my personality, that I knew needed change or growth.

It’s true that during runs I often found myself in deep self-reflection. I would revisit interactions, recognize where I had been wrong, and consider what I could have done differently. Sometimes I would pray while running, sorting through hopes and fears, wrestling with mortality, and speaking with the One who could offer the sincerest help. But mostly, running gave me a distraction—albeit a healthy one.

In 2021, when that distraction was taken from me with a diagnosis of ARVC—or ACM, as the kids are calling it these days—I found myself adrift. Where could I turn for peace, sanctuary, or reflection? I had faith, yes, and my faith practices were—and still are—a great source of peace. But the higher forms of worship were not always available to me on demand. Running had been an easy, rewarding outlet, and it wasn’t easily replaced.

Throughout the eighteen months I spent waiting for a heart transplant, the six months leading up to my transplant listing, and the many months of recovery afterward, I turned to several other forms of distraction—some of which I’m not particularly proud.

I tried my hand at designing graphics for shirts and ended up selling sweatshirts with my designs to friends and family.

I explored certain subreddits on Reddit—mostly those centered on criticizing local social media influencers. This one I’m not proud of. Reddit can be a dark place, full of negativity and hatred. I do not, and cannot, recommend this distraction.

As a family, we took to driving around, seeing the sights, admiring mountain views, and exploring neighborhoods we had yet to visit.

We also adopted the pastime of visiting every Parade of Homes our state had to offer. While entertaining—if not exhausting—it led to feelings of emptiness, as our focus shifted toward what our own home lacked and what needed improvement. As such, this became another distraction I cannot fully recommend.

This is not an exhaustive list, but rather a snapshot of where my mind lived for nearly three years. What I learned during that time is this: our distractions become our habits, our habits become our lifestyle, and our lifestyle shapes our beliefs. Choose distractions that enhance and enrich your life—or that move you closer to the life you want.

If you’re in a season of waiting, grief, stress, or upheaval, it’s okay to hit pause. Sometimes moving forward feels too difficult, or even inappropriate. Sometimes simply standing still is the bravest option. And that is okay.

While we all want to shout for joy from the finish lines of our personal races, sometimes we find ourselves waiting apprehensively at the starting line, fully aware of the struggle ahead. There can be joy there too—a quieter joy, rooted in hope and faith, if we choose it. That same place can also become one of bitterness and envy, if we allow it.

Before my transplant—before my heart went haywire—I ran somewhere around twenty races. I may have placed in my age group a few times, but I never won a single race. Winning was never the point. The prize isn’t the trophy, after all.

The prize is who you become in the choosing, in the showing up, in the steady willingness to begin again—one imperfect step at a time. And this morning, in the cold, on tired legs and borrowed patience, I took that step.

Grace, Grief, and a 5K

I’ve never really been one for goal setting; New Year’s resolutions aren’t usually my thing. As a fitness instructor, I never even endorsed the idea. My thoughts on goal setting were always centered on changing simple habits, finding enjoyable hobbies, and seeing how life evolves from there. I still recommend this approach. But something about surviving a heart transplant—and getting older—has made me want to aim for something this coming year. Nothing wild. Just a little something to work toward.

It’s normal to come out of a traumatic experience—especially a medical trauma—feeling a little lost, or as some say, a little empty. When we think we should be feeling joy and gratitude, we might instead feel guilt, purposelessness, or our own version of grief. Many of us assume a transplant will change us, improve us, only to wake up and realize that the only things that have changed are a new organ and a regimen of life-sustaining medications.

I can attest to all of these feelings—this has been my experience. Writing helps. As do time with family, my faith, and my near-daily walks with friends. These things help me express myself, feel understood, and provide a sense of belonging that I deeply missed while waiting for my transplant and during recovery.

It was that feeling of belonging that kept me rooted in running for so many years. You see, I was never a good enough runner to be remotely competitive. Early on, I didn’t even particularly enjoy it. But over time, as it became part of my everyday routine, running evolved into an invigorating, cleansing ritual. I considered it as much a part of my hygiene regimen as brushing my teeth. A daily sweat session could purify my soul almost as effectively as repentance and prayer. In fact, whether on the treadmill or the pavement, I often found myself in an attitude of self-reflection that naturally led to prayer and repentance.

Then, at the age of 24, I registered for my first race—a spring fun run in Sugar House Park. My neighbor and I signed up together as a way to get back in shape after having our first babies just one week apart. It was at that fun run that I discovered running could offer something more: community. The shared enthusiasm, anticipation, and—dare I say—joy were contagious. It never seemed to matter that I wasn’t elite, had never run a marathon (thank goodness, as that level of training could have accelerated my ARVC progression and need for a transplant), or ran in leggings instead of speed shorts. I was one of them—a runner, part of a unique group of people who tolerated pain and endured grueling circumstances better than most.

Running became more than a daily habit; it became a part of my identity.

Unfortunately, after my ARVC (arrhythmogenic right ventricular cardiomyopathy) diagnosis, running was something I had to give up. Over time, I made peace with that prescription. Even so, there was a hole left behind—a void where running once lived. I will probably always grieve those easy days when the rhythm of my feet hitting the ground felt natural and effortless, as well as that community I no longer feel a part of.

Recently, I read an article in Bonus Days magazine about a young woman named Wendy who received a small bowel transplant during the COVID restrictions of 2022. Isolation was the norm then, especially in the hospital. Her husband couldn’t even be with her during her inpatient stay. In the article, she shared two insights that stood out to me. When asked what illness had taught her, she said, “Health is a crown only the sick can see.” And when asked what joy looks like for her now, she said, “To get to a place of joy with where I am, I had to grieve the life I thought I was going to have so I could make space for the amazing and beautiful life that I do have.”

I said in an earlier post that it is perfectly okay to see the clouds along with the silver lining. We don’t always have to maintain a shining outlook to prove our gratitude. Without recognition and reflection, the hard parts of our lives can’t teach us anything. If we don’t look back, we’ll never know how far we’ve come. Grieving is an honest and necessary part of that process.

I know I will never be the runner I once was—age alone presents enough of a barrier. But my goal for 2026—my New Year’s resolution, if you will—is to train for, sign up for, and complete an organized 5K. I know I won’t be fast and won’t place anywhere near the top of my age group. But I will be proud of myself for showing up—for allowing myself the space to release old expectations and reconnect with a part of myself I thought I had mourned and buried long ago.

This goal isn’t about reclaiming what I lost or proving that I’m “back.” It’s about honoring who I am now—someone shaped by grief, grit, and resilience. Crossing that finish line won’t symbolize victory over illness or a return to a former identity. Instead, it will mark my willingness to keep moving forward, to carry the past with tenderness and gratitude rather than regret, and to make room for joy as it exists today. I am healing, and healing takes honesty, grace, and a fair amount of courage. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do isn’t to run faster or farther, but simply to have the faith to begin again.

Permission to be Human

The holiday season arrives each year dressed in bright lights and confident cheer, announcing itself as a time when everyone is supposed to feel warm, grateful, and whole. Songs insist on joy. Social media posts glow with parties and matching sweaters. Calendars fill with gatherings and traditions. But sometimes this season quietly overlaps with something much heavier: reality—illness, exhaustion, and a sadness that feels out of place among all the celebration.

Being sick during the holidays carries a particular loneliness. Sickness already narrows the world—your body asks you to slow down, to cancel plans, to listen closely to discomfort. When it coincides with a season that emphasizes togetherness and energy, that narrowing can feel like exclusion and loneliness. You may watch celebrations from a distance, physically or emotionally unable to participate. Even minor illnesses can feel larger in December, as if they are stealing something precious and irreplaceable.

There is also the emotional weight of feeling “down” when happiness seems mandatory. Feeling anything less than cheerful during the holidays often brings guilt along with it—the sense that you are wasting something special, that you should be more thankful, more cheerful, more present. This pressure can make sadness feel like a personal failure rather than a human response. It can be difficult to admit you are struggling when everything around you insists this is the season of joy.

And so a cycle forms. When the body is weak or in pain, the mind grows heavy. When the mind is heavy, the body feels even more tired. Days blur together. Things that once brought comfort and excitement—decorating, cooking, visiting—may feel like an extra chore. Instead of anticipation, there is endurance. Instead of celebration, there’s perseverance.

A few nights ago, I woke in the darkness with intense back pain. I rolled carefully in bed, trying not to wake Aaron. He has been especially busy at work with end-of-year planning, and I didn’t want to disturb his sleep. As the night went on, I found myself in pain and needing the restroom every thirty minutes. I had no choice in the matter—despite all my effort, my restlessness woke Aaron. Though I knew what was happening, I didn’t want to admit I needed help. If I was sick and went to the hospital, there was a real chance I could end up admitted. And that would ruin Christmas for the whole family. So, I convinced him I could wait it out.

By morning, I felt better and proudly announced to my family, “I passed a kidney stone last night.” I assumed the worst was behind me. The next day we went holiday shopping, watched a movie, and I cuddled my granddaughter—quietly congratulating myself for getting through that awful night without intervention.

The following evening, after a beautiful Christmas Sunday at church, the pain returned. Slowly at first, then steadily worsening. As it intensified, so too did the realization that I needed help. A fever followed, and the night became a long stretch of pain and discomfort. Again, I tried not to wake Aaron. He had client appointments the next day, along with a Christmas lunch for his employees. How could I interrupt that?

By morning, he insisted on driving me to the emergency room. I urged Aaron to leave and attend to his commitments—I was trying to be strong. After tests confirmed a kidney stone and a kidney infection, and after receiving IV antibiotics, to my relief, I was discharged. Without a car to drive myself home, I wandered the hospital after stopping at the pharmacy, waiting for Aaron to finish and come pick me up.

A hospital during the holidays is an interesting place. In the midst of suffering—patients arriving and leaving with varying levels of anxiety, pain, and sadness—there are Christmas trees, ribbons, and people dressed in holiday cheer. The contrast can feel jarring. In all the noise and festivity of Christmas, the quiet plight of the sick can feel overlooked.

But as I waited, I witnessed something unexpected.

Near the main entrance, a group of hospital employees—some wearing Santa hats—gathered around the information desk. They were visibly excited, anticipating something. A delivery was coming. “There are thirty-two more boxes!” someone exclaimed. “That’s about sixteen hundred total!” another replied. Their faces lit up with amazement.

Soon, volunteers arrived pushing carts stacked high with boxes. Inside were children’s books—gifts for children spending the holidays in the hospital. But the books weren’t the real gift.

The real gift was written on faces. The volunteers delivering the boxes and the staff receiving them glowed with joy, excitement, and hope—hope that their efforts might brighten someone else’s holiday, even in a small way.

Last year, to mark the first anniversary of my heart transplant, I donated fifty satin pillowcases to the hospital for transplant patients. Each one was wrapped with a bow and included a note of encouragement—something I knew would have lifted my own spirits during my hospital stays. I never saw them distributed. I never received a thank-you. Yet the act of giving brought me immense joy. The benefactor became the recipient.

But acts of charity during the holidays don’t have look grand—humble, simple things work just as well. Things as simple as patience in a checkout line, anonymous generosity, choosing compassion when it would be easier to rush past all help in little-yet-persuasive ways. These moments don’t erase pain or sickness, but they remind us that gentleness still exists. And sometimes that’s all we need to restore our hope. Because sometimes hope doesn’t come from summoning strength within ourselves, but from witnessing how willingly others offer theirs.

The holidays are often portrayed as a dreamscape of cheer and togetherness. But in real life, holiday magic doesn’t always arrive as excitement or optimism. More often, it arrives quietly—in kindness witnessed when you are still enough to notice, in generosity unfolding around you, in the trust that this moment is not permanent even when you cannot yet imagine what comes next. Hope doesn’t require certainty; it only asks for openness.

Here I offer permission to be human. If this holiday season finds you ill or feeling down, let that be okay. Let it be a chapter, not a verdict. Care for yourself in the ways you can. Accept care when it is offered. Release the idea that you must perform joy to deserve this season. Even now—especially now—you are allowed to be human.

And when you look ahead, past the decorations and the calendar and this heavy moment, remember this: the light you are waiting for does not disappear when you are sick or sad. It shows itself in generosity, in patience, in quiet acts of care. The holidays will pass. Your strength will return. Lighter days are ahead. Hope is already here, quietly at work, even when all you can do is rest.

What I Couldn’t Say Out Loud

Sometimes I find myself going quiet. When a thought hits me, I usually share it immediately—with my husband, my sister, my kids, or a friend. I’m an open book. I wear my emotions on my face.

But every now and then, a thought comes that feels almost sacred, and instead of speaking, I grow quiet. Sometimes I worry that what I have to say will be too much for some people—offensive to others, misunderstood, disrespected, or simply falling on ears unwilling to listen.

In my worry over what other people think, I pull inward, try to make myself small, and stop sharing.

That happened to me the other day at church—a place where I should feel safe sharing something sacred. Instead, I swallowed hard against the lump rising in my throat as I felt a quiet prompting, a solemn recognition of a promise I made two years ago.

We were talking about the importance of seeking validation vertically instead of horizontally—language I knew Keelie, my 20-year-old daughter with autism, wouldn’t be able to decode on her own. As I tried to explain it to her, I applied the idea to myself and was suddenly pulled into a moment of remembrance.

Two years ago, on December 13, 2023, I felt an undeniable prompting to pray differently—to ask for a miracle. Until then, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to pray for the heart transplant I needed. It felt too big, too profound. But I couldn’t ignore the prompting. So after everyone left for work and Keelie was dropped off at school, alone in the quiet of my home, I prayed.

I had prayed before—for answers, for healing, for peace. I had prayed for God’s plan and His timing to prevail. I was always careful to pray for what I felt prompted to pray for. This time was no different—except for one thing.

Just before closing that humble invocation, I added a pledge—something I couldn’t say out loud.

In a rushed whisper, I said, “Father, if you give me a miracle, I will never stop sharing it.”

And He delivered.

The very next day, at 9:17 a.m., I received the call—the one you hope for but never quite believe will come.

“Fiauna, we have the perfect heart for you. Are you ready to come into the hospital?”

I am painfully aware that not everyone in circumstances like mine receives such an obvious miracle. I know many feel their prayers go unheard or unanswered. I’ve been there myself—searching for the hand of a loving God and feeling utterly alone. And it does not escape me that my prayer for a miracle came at the exact moment another family, in another part of the country, was praying too. But instead of receiving the gift of life, they received grief—and a guardian angel. My heart breaks at the thought.

That is precisely why remembering that pledge matters so deeply to me.

I will not let that family’s sacrifice be in vain. I will not let their heartbreak be forgotten. I will show those who want to see that God still keeps His promises—and that He still performs miracles.

So as I type these humble words, I know not many people may read them. But I also know this: no amount of horizontal validation—though momentarily fulfilling—will ever bring the peace that vertical validation provides. Whether one person reads this or five million do, I am not seeking approval from the masses.

I am keeping my promise.

I will never stop sharing my miracle.

Five Rules For Life

This week, I celebrate two bonus years. Two more years granted to me through the generosity and foresight, during a time of grief, of a donor family; the discipline and hard work of healthcare professionals; the love and support of family, friends, and the most wonderful husband; and by the sheer goodness of a loving God.

At my recent follow-up visit with my transplant team, one of my favorite doctors asked what words I had to offer after two years. I blurted out, without much thought, “Don’t take it for granted.” But then I really got to thinking: what do I really want to say after this last year? While 2025—year two after transplant—challenged me in ways I could not have foreseen, it also blessed me in ways I previously hoped and prayed for. Looking back on it all, what have I learned?

In an episode of Malcolm Gladwell’s podcast Revisionist History, he talked about well-known celebrities and personalities and their 12 rules for life—rules like “Always stand up straight,” “Always try a new dish at a restaurant,” or “Always pat a cat when you encounter one in the street.” It made me think: what would my rules for life be?

So here are my five rules for life (so far, at age 50, two years post–heart transplant):

1) Carry the weight of just this moment.
So many times in life, when I’ve been burdened by something hard, frustrating, or painful, I’ve made my own burden heavier by worrying about how I was going to manage things down the road. I’ve learned in the last few years to let go of looking too far ahead in times of difficulty and to give myself permission to take it one step at a time—carrying the weight of just this moment.

2) Always look for something to be grateful for.
Showing up with gratitude is the quickest way to happiness and a satisfying life. Long ago, I read the famous quote by Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl: “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.” In that instant, my perspective changed. We get to choose how we feel. I have found over the years that one of the quickest ways to shift how I feel is to choose gratitude. Look for things to be grateful for, and you will be happy.

3) Treat your body with respect. Consider your health a privilege.
Every day outside of the hospital, every day you wake up in your own bed, get to choose your own meals, and use the bathroom in privacy is a day to celebrate. So take care of your health; protect it. The internet and social media are full of opinions on the best way to do this, but in the end, nourishing food, enjoyable-yet-challenging movement, good rest, and evidence-based medicine are your best bets.

4) Move your body, breathe deeply, sweat a little every day.
Exercise is a privilege—one that was taken from me for more than two years. Even now, I miss running and the joy it once brought me; I hope and pray someday to participate in a 5K or 10K again. If you’re reading this, take one minute to breathe deeply, stand up—or sit down, if that’s a limitation you’re facing—and find some way to move your body before that ability is taken from you.

5) Find happiness in simple things and celebrate tiny miracles.
While setting goals and working toward achievement stretches us, helps us grow, and pushes us toward our true potential, it’s the little things we appreciate day to day that make life uplifting and bearable. Big accomplishments are life-enriching, for sure, but in times of test, simplicity is best.

Two years ago, my life was quite literally on the line when a donor, along with a skilled surgeon and medical team, gave me the gift of more time. These years since have taught me that life is not meant to be taken lightly. It is meant to be appreciated, protected, and lived with intention. My rules are in no way declarations of having figured it all out, but reminders I try to return to when I find myself comparing, rushing, or looking too far ahead. If these years have given me anything, it is a deeper reverence for each ordinary day and a profound awareness that every breath, every step, and every moment of love is a gift. So as I celebrate these bonus days, I do so with humility, gratitude, and a renewed commitment to live fully—carrying only today, choosing gratitude, honoring my body, moving when I can, and finding joy in the small, miraculous moments that make a life whole.

My Dad, A Fortune Cookie, and a New Beat

My stepdad was a man of simple abundance—and by abundance, I mean abundance. The man was a bit of a hoarder. He collected things. He loved tools, electronics, toys—anything anyone might possibly consider useful. If it existed, odds were it had a home somewhere in his collection.

He was also a connoisseur of little joys. He found pleasure in the simplest things. From him, I learned the satisfaction of an uncomplicated, unpretentious snack plate, assembled without fuss and shared with loved ones on a quiet Sunday evening at home.

He loved food—especially sharing it. He learned to cook at a young age and even taught cake-decorating classes for a time. He passed his collection (read: hoard) of cake pans along to me. Whenever I feel compelled to bake a cake shaped like, say, a rocking horse, I know I’ll find the perfect pan in his stash.

One of his favorite foods to share was Chinese food. Growing up, he’d hunt down the best Chinese restaurants, form friendships with the owners, and somehow negotiate his way into free meals for years. Because of him, Chinese food became a treasured, celebratory staple in our family.

After living a simple-yet-abundant life, my stepdad passed away in 2018. We would have celebrated his 86th birthday this year.

Just two days after my heart transplant, on December 17th, 2023—what would have been his 84th birthday—while I was hallucinating in the ICU, high as a kite on steroids and painkillers, a meal of Chinese food was delivered to my home. Only one fortune cookie came with the order. The message inside read: It’s time to dance to a new beat.

It was a simple message with layers of meaning. What was likely nothing more than a small act of kindness from someone (we still don’t know who) felt to our family like a message from the other side.

That little fortune cookie became, for us, a small miracle. What would have been a simple joy for my dad has become a quiet, yet profound, wonder for me and my family.

As naïve or trivial as it may sound, the ability to find solace and meaning in small joys is a sign of resilience—a healthy and powerful coping mechanism. In the midst of a challenge or crisis, recognizing simple joys and acknowledging small miracles can mean the difference between hope and healing—or grief, depression, and poor outcomes.

When we learn to find joy in simple things, and to see relevance and meaning in small miracles, we don’t diminish our lives—we enrich them. Finding satisfaction in simple abundance doesn’t make us foolish or weak; it shows we’re adaptable, strong, and resourceful.

In fifty years of living, I’ve learned to pivot, absolutely—but I’ve also learned to lean into simple joys and small miracles. Over time, I’ve realized that those big, theatrical scenes of miraculous events or perfect resolutions rarely come to fruition. In fact, when life feels heaviest, those grand solutions are often the least available. But what is available might be a cold can of Diet Coke, a funny movie, a brisk walk with friends to share gossip, or a fortune cookie delivered by a stranger with exactly the right message tucked inside.

Almost a year later, when I received a letter from my heart donor’s mother, she shared that Ella was a dancer. I love the thought that the steady rhythm of her dancer’s heart is now keeping me alive. What a blessing. What an absolute miracle. It’s time to dance to a new beat.

Looking for joy in simple things—finding connection and purpose in a simple-yet-abundant life—might not erase difficulty, but it will offer relief, belonging, and perspective. If I take one tool from my stepdad’s tool hoard, it’s this: the ability to find and savor the small, sustaining wonders quietly waiting all around us. After all, you find what you’re looking for.

I’ll Hold That For You

I’ve been pondering lately how most people love a victor’s tale. And, if not, how they then are quick to root for the underdog. If you think about it, more often than not, what catches the attention of most is a story of triumph: of challenges faced, odds defied, and struggles overcome.

It’s true—some people genuinely love a good tragedy. No judgment there. After all, many of the greatest works in literature are tragic at their core—think Romeo and Juliet or Macbeth. If tragedy didn’t strike a deep, strangely satisfying chord in us, Shakespeare’s works would never have endured with such popularity.

But what we really want is a neat and tidy ending. We crave stories that, while compelling, follow a predictable pattern and end tied up with a bow. We want an engaging exposition, a captivating rise in tension, an electrifying climax, and a clear, fulfilling resolution.

In short, we want to be entertained!

Also, we’re uncomfortable sitting in discomfort, even when—especially when—it’s not our own.

So, how then do we do we deal with those whose stories don’t follow a traditional narrative arc with that desirable rise and resolution? What do we do those whose stories refuse to tie up in a neat, tidy bow, that linger in the uneasy space between conflict and resolution? Not yet a triumphant tale of victory, but not quite a tragedy either. How do we support those still waiting for their happy ending?

I was told I was going to be listed for a heart transplant sometime around April 30th, 2022, and officially placed on the heart transplant waiting list on June 14th of that same year. I was initially listed as a status 6, the lowest active level of listing, meaning my wait could realistically last anywhere from one day to one year with the likelihood being closer to one year. I was ready to wait. And my expectation was to learn patience in the process.

But our expectations all too frequently fall short of reality.

All told, I waited for a total of 18 months—to the day—for my heart transplant miracle. And while I certainly learned a great deal a patience, I learned so much more. For starters, I learned that the transplant–what seemed like the very climax of my story–was really just the beginning of another chapter of my story. I also learned that for most of us this journey is an oddly lonely adventure, one stitched together with dramatic highs and lows. Lab results swing like a pendulum, emotions follow close behind, and we find ourselves oscillating between the cold suspense of waiting for test results and the rush of relief when an appointment brings good news. There are heart-pounding moments in the cath lab, yes, but also long stretches of quiet, slow page turning in waiting-room chairs.

But there is rarely a truly satisfying resolution. This story goes on and on—not in the grand, sweeping way of an epic, but simply as an overly long narrative.

I was talking with a new friend, Alison at Bonus Days magazine , someone writing chapters in her own epic journey, and she recently said something to me that really resonated. We were commiserating about the ups and downs of living life post heart transplant and I apologized for unloading a few frustrations when she said, “That’s okay. I’ll hold that for you.”

I’ll hold that for you. What a lovely sentiment.

What I felt in that moment was validation. She took a seat next to me in the waiting room and agreed to turn the next page of this overly long, not-all-that-epic tale I’m writing. She’s agreed to stand by this unlikely heroine while I’m living my main-character moment.

In this space, where not every book is written with a victorious conclusion or a tragic-yet-inspiring denouement, perhaps the part of the story that matters most is not the thrilling accounts of victory or the dramatic scenes of defeat, but the subtle, life-changing character development that takes place between the lines.

A Story For Christmas

n the very cold, very brutal Pennsylvania winter of 1983, my parents found themselves looking for a new place for our little family to live.

My stepdad had been working as a farm hand, repairing farm and milking equipment for an old couple that owned a dairy in the tiny town of Shippenville. As part of his pay, we were allowed to live in a small, nearly dilapidated old house with a sagging roof and rotting porch that was next to the barnyard on their property. As awful as the house sounds, it was charming to me. The surrounding countryside was nothing short of Idyllic in my childhood memory, with horses and cattle grazing in bucolic fields. My older sister and I helped out on the farm by assisting with the milking every morning and afternoon, tending to the chickens and turkeys and pulling weeds in the vegetable garden. We played for hours in the barn, jumping from the haylofts and playing hide-and-seek. We loved it there as children. We were sad to be leaving.

Unfortunately, earlier that fall, after a gloriously warm summer, we were awakened in the middle of the night by the bright glow of fire outside. The three-story barn was in flames—fully engulfed. Despite the best efforts of the local fire department, the barn burned to the ground. The farmer had just finished hauling in all the hay and oats from the field. Despite warnings from my stepdad that the hay was wet and in the warmth should not be stored in the barn, the farmer loaded it into the barn anyway. Large fans ran on the crop day and night to keep it dry and to keep mold at bay. And it had been an electrical spark from one of the fans that ignited the fire that burned the barn and everything in it.

The crop of hay and oats, gone.

Left without a barn, the tools and crops it housed and the milking equipment adjacent to it, the old farmer had no way of making money. He was forced to sell the farm and land. Including the little house we lived in.

Finding housing in a crunch in such a rural community took great providence, and by December of that year, my parents felt providence was certainly not smiling on them. I am sure desperate prayers were said.

Finally, on the day before Christmas Eve that year, they found an apartment for rent in the neighboring town of Seneca. The apartment was on the second floor above a small factory that made cemetery vaults—not exactly home-sweet-home. But it was good enough for us, for a time.

The next hurdle that needed jumping was moving our family and all our belongings on the night before Christmas Eve. We had no family near us as western Pennsylvania was not our native home. My mom had moved my sister and I from Utah to Pennsylvania after her divorce 5 years earlier. And after she married our step-dad, we had basically lived like nomads, moving wherever there was work. While we had a church community, our congregation was small and geographically spread all over the area. We were poor, and nearly alone. And we only had one little car to our name. There was no U-haul rental nearby. We had access to neither truck, nor trailer.

To top it off, a storm had blown in. That area was prone to lake effect snow and brutal Canadian winds. The wind chill on that night was 60 below zero.

It sure didn’t feel like Christmas time. And I remember being disappointed—worried even. We had no Christmas tree, no decorations, no tinsel, no gifts, and no angel on top of the tree to help us remember Christ. I feared there really would be no Christmas.

We spent the majority of that day boxing up our things, taking apart furniture, basically working and moving and moving and working and only pausing now and then to ponder how we were going to get everything to our new place with only our little car to take it all.

I’m not sure how this happened—being a child at the time, most things just seemed to miraculously come to pass. Now, through the lens of adulthood, I recognize my parents must have prayed and put out a call for help—and then prayed some more. But somehow, a decent number of farmers from the surrounding community, began pulling up unceremoniously in front of our little old farmhouse. They brought their trucks, trailers and hay wagons and, in the bitter cold of that night, loaded up our belongings and carried them to our tiny apartment in the neighboring town more than a 30 minute drive away.

But they didn’t stop there. Despite the ice and cold, they then unloaded all the boxes and furnishings and carefully carried them up the long, narrow flight of stairs and placed them in our new home, before returning to their own homes and own families to finish their many chores and prepare for their Christmas celebrations.

And then, just to make the holiday a little more Christmas-like, someone, one of those blessed farmers, returned to our apartment with a Christmas tree. I still remember that tree. To me, with the recollection of a child, it was tall and fat, and sitting on the very top was the most beautiful angel smiling down on us, reminding me of heaven and the true meaning of Christmas. That tree and the angel on top magically drown out those feelings of worry and disappointment I had had earlier. The memory lasts to this day.

Even though Christmas two years ago—the year of my heart transplant—was truly miraculous for our family, filled with more service than we could ever hope to repay and forever sacred to us, the Christmas we spent in Seneca, Pennsylvania will always stand out. That was the year I learned that the greatest gifts are those that remind us what truly matters: hope, kindness, and the light of Christ we carry within.

In the words of Jeffery R. Holland, “Not all angels are from the other side of the veil. Some of them, we walk with and talk with—here, now, every day. … Indeed, Heaven never seems closer than when we see the love of God manifested in the kindness and devotion of people so good and so pure that angelic is the only word that comes to mind.”

May we each, this Christmas, be that angel for someone else. May we follow a prompting, answer a call, have the faith to say yes, and serve each other as Christ serves us.