This year has been one of solitude and reflection. Much of the time, we worried on behalf of loved ones, our country, and ourselves. We listened, more than usual, to those who claimed to know or should have known about the virus, about threats, about injustice. Then many of us stopped listening. We retreated within ourselves and dug deep for truth. It was then that we discovered the others, the truth seekers. People like you and me.
As Christmas approaches, I find myself immensely grateful for all who have reached out across the divides of COVID to say hello, to offer a hand. In particular, I'm grateful for the writers who have accompanied me this year. I may not have known you, were it not for the virus, for the solitude, for the desperate need to understand.
Through memoirs, like Kathleen Pooler's Just the Way He Walked, I realized that it's an illusion to think we walk alone with our sorrows. Her beautiful testimony opened doors within my heart. Jill Weatherholt's romance novel gave me hope in humanity, in innocent love. Sally Cronin's books made me feel as though I had a sister across the Atlantic Ocean. Marcia Meara introduced me to the angels' emissaries, and John Howell helped me see how they travel through time. Karen Ingalls took me through life's struggles and showed me the face of redemption. There are so many other authors I could mention, and I'm sure you could as well.
This year I've read dozens of books, and without exception, each writer stretched my world wider. They helped me see the mysteries hidden behind smiles, the possibilities locked in hearts, the beauty in every person. I traveled with them to outer space, to countries never seen, to times long past or yet to be.
To all the writers, Thank You. I'm immensely grateful for all that you've given me this year. Whether you sell volumes or not, whether your reviews are all 5-stars or not, you have made a difference in my life and so many others. May you and all have a very joy-full Christmas.