People who always seem to make things better . . .

My pastors. Somehow they always say the right things to me—even when it pisses me off, mainly because I don’t want that to be the right thing to hear in the moment. But once I get past being pissed off, I don’t just know the rightness of the thing; I feel it. Feel it deep in my gut. It’s settling, even when it’s hard. They also know just when to pat my shoulder, give me a hug, offer to pray for me, or just check in because I was on their mind. They are tender, attentive shepherds and they reflect my Good Shepherd to me, and that always makes things better.

My therapist. She is the safest person I know. It’s her job to be so, but she also takes every opportunity to let me know it is also her delight to be so. She cries with me, but she also cries for me in moments when I or others should but don’t, or won’t. She stops to make space for acknowledging or celebrating things big and small that deserve a full-stop kind of notice. And she’ll just acknowledge and then let it soak. She hugs me after every session because she knows I need hugs and might not otherwise receive one that week, or that month. She lets me be broken, and that always makes everything better.

My friend Kelly’s babies. They see me and break out into smiles that take up their whole faces—gums bared, eyes squinted, grunts of delight, drooly bubbles, and all. Or they fling their arms around my neck and declare, “That’s my Miss Amber!” and squeeze with all their might until you can’t tell where my cheek ends and theirs begin. Or they come running to greet me at the door and tell me all about their sports or dance class or toys. Or they ask me to read them books with all the voices, or cackle and howl with laughter when we are silly at bathtime. They just bring their love and delight, and nothing sours it, and it brings me back in touch with the things that matter most of all. And that always makes everything better.

Anne Shirley. She transports me, and in so doing she grants me permission to daydream. And to hold on to those daydreams. She sees the beauty in the poetry and the prose of life—even in the heartaches—and she grants permission for grown-ups to hold their childhood selves close and sit and listen as they ramble through their dreams and hopes and wonderings and observations and theories. Doesn’t matter how wild they are, they matter enough to hear, and by drawing us back to them, she makes everything better too.