“I don’t get it. Why do people go to church twice a year?” one of my co-workers blurted out this week in a brazen workplace violation of the holy trinity of taboo topics: politics, religion, and will-you-cover-for-me-while-I’m-on-vacation. No one spoke. Crickets. Just, thud. He rescued himself from his own pregnant pause by continuing, “That’s like
Years ago, my magazine editor sent me to solve a mystery about the best-selling single of all time. You might have heard the tune. Everyone from U2 to T-Swift, from Elvis to Alvin (and the Chipmunks) has recorded it. And who could ever forget Bing Crosby crooning it? White Christmas. My assignment was to find
Dear Holiday Dysfunction, We are breaking up with you. We are writing new family stories this holiday season. We are not looking back at you with a single pang of guilt. Don’t believe us? We’ve got the classic breakup lines ready to go. “It’s not you, it’s me.” “I need space.” “I found someone else.”
When the pilgrims gave thanks in 1621, they’d lost half of their original group to malnutrition and scurvy. When Abraham Lincoln declared Thanksgiving a federal holiday in 1863, our country was headlong and halfway into the deadliest toll any war would take on American life. In everything give thanks. It’s an unreasonable response to being
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