My mother seemed unusually sad on the March morning that Jeff and I left her apartment to drive to New England. The depth of her emotion struck me as odd. We’d visited with her for several days on our way north, and we planned to stop there again on our trip home. “Mom,” I said, “we’ll be back in two weeks, for at least a couple of nights.”

“Oh,” she said, putting on a brave smile. “That’s right. I’ll see you soon.”

Could she really have forgotten? She was doing so well—living without pain, eating well, even playing an occasional hand of bridge with other women in her retirement complex. Still, I drove away feeling unsettled.

 A few weeks ago, a car accident in our community took the life of a child. An only child. Now his mother, whom I know through church, is mired in the personal hell through which Jeff and I traveled seven years ago.

Within a few days the mother sent word that she wanted to talk with me. I knew why.

One day in 1973, tired of arguing with people about his beliefs and actions, John Francis stopped speaking. His silence lasted for 17 years.

Francis had already earned a reputation as a bit eccentric by the time he decided that talking didn’t serve his goals. Two years earlier, after the collision of two tankers in San Francisco Bay caused a massive oil spill, he had stopped using all forms of motorized transportation. Occasionally he biked or sailed, but mostly he traveled on foot as a form of environmental protest. He called himself the Planetwalker.

But what was the point, people would ask.

The year 2014 was not a good one for Bill Rea, a musician and teacher on the Outer Banks.

First he lost his day job as a banker. “It happens,” he says with a shrug. “Banks get sold; people get let go.” Still, it wasn’t easy. He received other job offers but decided to take some time off.

On a trip to the grocery store one afternoon, he impulsively grabbed a carton of fried chicken. He ate it all—and felt worse than he’d ever felt in his life.

Six years ago, during a time when my life had completely lost its luster, I met a clerk at a Wawa convenience store who understood the healing power of happiness. Actually, I suppose I never really “met” him.  I simply had the good fortune to go through his checkout line.