This has been my hardest and most joyful year yet.  I don’t know about you, but I’ve had days so full of joy and sorrow that it’s hard to remember to say thank-you, to look outside myself and remember to give back.  When I do remember to look outside myself, I realize my friends, family, co-workers, even the strangers in my town, share many of the same problems and blessings.  As you probably know, this is Bookmans Gives Thanks Month, and it’s a wonderful reminder to be grateful.

At this time last year two things happened in my family; I had my daughter Maxine, and a few weeks later my younger (and only) brother was diagnosed with stage III testicular cancer.  The following months were filled with both the horror of watching a loved-one suffer and the joy of watching a new life thrive.  One morning in Seattle, with my brother newly admitted to the oncology ward, I found myself in a hotel room next to my sleeping infant and I was overcome with joy at her peaceful face and the quietly foggy sunrise over the skyline out our window. I thought: “How can this be? How can there be any happiness in this terrible time?”

This year my family has learned to be grateful for the smallest things. My daughter is one now, and runs and laughs with the other toddlers.  She’s growing into her own person, less needy of me everyday.  My brother, after a year of chemo, 12-hour surgery, and high-dose stem-cell therapy, seems finally on the mend.  His hair is coming back, the color in his cheeks is returning, and he’s turned his attention back toward the future.

Last week I went out to Seattle see him, and to celebrate my mother’s 60th birthday.  I couldn’t decide what to bring her, until I remembered how books got them through much of the last year.  So I went into Bookmans and I loaded-up an entire suitcase of novels that I thought my mom would enjoy.  My mother is a woman of means, and claims to have everything she needs, but the recommendation of a good book is priceless, and I knew that even the slightly battered paperbacks would bring her more happy hours than any expensive thing I’d find at the mall. She was delighted.

After I gave her the books, my mom told me a story I’ll never forget: when my brother was at his lowest point, literally staring death in the face, my mom took out a good book and began to read.  She wasn’t sure he was listening until he cracked his eyelids and asked a question to clarify the characters.  My mom used the nurses’ whiteboard in the hospital room to map them so my brother could follow the storyline through his haze of pain.  She swears the book got them through that night, and I believe it.

I understand now that it’s the little things in life that matter the most: a good book, the right music, time with a loved one. Life is short, and we have so much to be thankful for.