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 Each day feels new, and my memory of the one before is faint. I’m learning to adapt. |
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In September 2019, a seizure revealed a lime-sized meningioma pressed against my hippocampus—the part of the brain that governs memory and language. The doctors said it was benign, but benign didn’t mean harmless. Surgery removed the tumor, and three days later I opened my eyes to a new reality. I could walk, I could talk, but when I looked at my wife, her name was gone. I called her Precious—the only word I could find. A failure of memory, yet perhaps the truest name of all. Recovery has been less cure than re-calibration. Memory gaps are frequent. Conversations vanish. I had to relearn how to write, letter by halting letter. My days are scaffold by alarms, notes, and calendars. When people ask how I am, I don’t list symptoms or struggles. I simply say, “Seven Degrees Left of Center.” It’s not an answer—it’s who I’ve become. |
| Merry Christmas. There is a different kind of quiet this morning. It isn’t just that the house is still. The world itself feels paused. Most everything is shut down. People are home. Roads are empty. The constant background hum has fallen away, and without it, the quiet feels intentional. Chosen. For Christians, this quiet holds a deeper meaning. The Savior’s birth was not silent forever. It was announced. First by the cry of a newborn breaking the stillness in a manger. A sound as ordinary and human as it gets. Then, according to the story, by the heavens themselves. Angels speaking into the night, declaring peace, not to kings or crowds, but to shepherds keeping watch. The quiet was broken, but not by power. By life. By breath. By a voice small enough to be held. That contrast matters. Silence giving way to a baby’s cry. Earth answering heaven. The extraordinary arriving through the most ordinary sound in the world. There is another layer to this morning too, one that does not depend on belief. This quiet feels like a collective choice. A rare pause where we agree, even briefly, to stop striving. To be where we are. To let peace take up space. For one day, the noise recedes, and we remember that rest, connection, and kindness are not luxuries. They are necessary. The coffee is hot. Light moves slowly across the room. Nothing is demanding attention yet. Soon enough, the world will start up again. It always does. But for this moment, we sit in the after-echo of silence and song, of stillness and voice. Whether you hear this day as sacred story, shared tradition, or simply a human pause for peace, the wish is the same. Merry Christmas. May it be gentle, and may it be shared. |
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Best wishes for 2026, and do please keep us in your loopy loop 
