I am, I acknowledge, melancholy. I spend time being aware of all of what could happen, and being present with people when those things actually do happen. Unexpected or expected but overwhelming death. Falls, strokes, things we’d rather I not list.

So here’s a different story.

On Christmas Eve morning, I went walking in the adjoining neighborhood. My running has fallen apart of late. Walking helps.

Down the street, by the curb, I saw a Craftsman toolbox. Because of the informal rules of community pre-garbage sharing, I realized this toolbox was available for anyone who would haul it away.

A week before, at a resale shop, I’d seen a similar toolbox. I couldn’t justify spending the money just because I’ve always thought they looked cool. After all, I had no real use for one. My tools were fine in a cabinet my dad made, in a couple toolboxes, on my workbench, on another workbench, on most flat surfaces in the garage.

I ran home, drove back, got red paint on the bumper, and put the toolbox in the garage. I cleaned up the top box, added labels, and cleared off one workbench, a toolbox, a couple other flat surfaces. I can sit in my office writing this, able to tell you which drawer has wrenches, which has drivers, which has utility knives.

I could also tell you about visiting with a family the other day who needed the priest who happened to be sitting in our chaplaincy office.

And the family who needed a conversation with a chaplain who happened to know the founding pastor of their little church.

Or with a chaplain who had eaten in the diner in their tiny town.

Maybe, as we move into the 17th year here, I’ll offer some of those stories, too.