It is the holiday season.
A time to deck the halls, be jolly, don gay apparel, and troll some ancient yuletide carols.
It is also a time for storytelling.
The epiphany of one Ebenezer Scrooge.
A visit from Ol' Saint Nick.
The acquisition of the strength of ten Grinches (plus two).
Or, for many of you, stories rooted in faith.
These stories, and many others, have not only shaped how we celebrate this season but its meaning.
In that way, it has always seemed to me that storytelling has more import at this time of the year than any other.
But what I really love about this season is the fact that it makes storytellers of us all.
I think back to my own experiences.
A visit from Santa in an emergency room one Christmas Eve.
A tree that toppled in the middle of the night.
A last Christmas with my grandmother.
Those stories have shaped the season and the meaning it has for me as much as Scrooge, The Grinch, or Saint Nick.
It is these stories that make us who we are.
They connect us.
And they enrich us.
Each time we tell our seasonal stories, we honor, we treasure, and we gain perspective.
We also realize we are so much more than we think we are.
We are the people we came from, and the people we surround ourselves with.
We are the result of all we have been through.
But as we once again read, watch, recall, and share the stories that have defined us, let us not forget that the holiday season presents opportunities to craft new stories.
Because our narrative continues.
We have so much more story to live.
As we enter the third year of a global pandemic, we need our stories--new and old--to help us through.
To remember, to reconnect, to hope, and to dream.
If I have one wish for you, it is that you make or find new experiences that become the stories you tell and embellish 5, 10, or even 20 years from now.
And that your heart grows three sizes figuratively, not literally.