On this eve, two photos: one of generalness of American life, the sludge of hurrying here and there, fueled by the genericness of roadside gas and plastic-wrapped convenience food.

Within all this, the utter uniqueness of my older neighbor opening her storm door for a long-haired feral cat, the loud boys across the street pummeling each other with snowballs, my daughter walking home, eggnog and a gift for her friend on her back.

I do not understand the mystery of grace — only that it meets us where we are and does not leave us where it found us.

— Anne Lamott

Hardwick, Vermont

Hardwick, Vermont