Since I am a professional writer, I thought that I would grant my very first interview. I called various television stations and offered them the chance to be the first to interview me. To my surprise they had never heard of me. Next I contacted the newspapers within a 600 mile radius of me. There was no luck, but on a positive note I now subscribe to thousands of local newspapers. I contacted every university, college, technical college in the continental United States, including Claire’s Beauty College/Dry cleaners in Mouse Jaw. Idaho. I have now made it impossible for any person I know, will know, or hope to know will no longer have an opportunity for a higher education.
I then had a major epiphany, yes, I do get an occasional epiphany. Where was I? Oh, ya my epiphany. I figured that as my new shiny novel was a Historical thingy, maybe the best people to interview me should be our public school students. I might even be able to mold a few young minds, or become an inspirational role model. Life lesson number 2987, not all epiphanies are good epiphanies. My grandchildren, and their grandchildren will now have to commute to another state or country in order to get their high school diploma.
A secondary epiphany popped into my mind. How hard can it be to interview myself? I’m a relatively smart person, with occasional brilliance. So, I am going to do just that, interview myself.

My first guest is a well known author, OK well known in his own home, Ramon Ballard. Welcome to my blog Ramon. May I call you Ramon?

RB---Thank you, yes you may call me Ramon.

raballard… Let’s get started. My first question is. Are there aliens in the inner office feeding you answers to my questions to you telepathically?

RB----First let me say how thrilled I am to be here today. I was unaware that you were following my lackluster career.

raballard… Just answer the question.

RB---I have never thought about that possibility. However, I am certain aliens have more important fish to fry. You know politicians, clergy, jurors, certain blog writers. I am not on too many alien watch lists.


raballard… very well, if that’s your doubtful story. Next question. Why are manhole covers round?

RB---I suppose that round covers are more appealing to the eyes? I really don’t know. I don’t write about manhole covers

raballard… Very well. Shall we continue? How many gas stations would you say there are in the United States?

RB---What? Maybe a few thousand. Where are you going with this line of questioning?

raballard… How many interviews have you been in charge of Mr. Ballard? Let’s leave the questioning to the professionals shall we. If aliens landed in front of you and, in exchange for anything you desire, offered you any position on their planet, what would you want

RB---I wouldn’t want to be offered a position by alien attackers. Are we going to talk about my book?

raballard… Patience, this must be your first interview. If you were a salad, what kind of dressing would you have?

RB---Thousand Island. That’s a ridiculous question. Ask me about THE LAST CHANCE.

raballard… Who do you like best, your mom or dad?

RB---You know mom passed. Are you completely crazy?

raballard…In a small room you have a refrigerator, if you left the door of the 'fridge open would the temp in the room fall or would the temp in the 'fridge rise? Why?

RB---That’s it, I’m out of here. You have not asked one question about how or why I wrote THE LAST CHANCE. You have not asked about my experience while seeking publication.

raballard…What makes you angry? Did Ramon leave? Why? Well there you have it, the first interview of astronaut Ramon Ballard. What……..sorry Author Ramon Ballard, I suppose he wrote some book. Join us next time when I interview the president of the raballard fan club, Ramon Ballard.

Me, #WritersPitch, and the why not me bug.

“Many of the great writing achievements of the world were accomplished by tired and discouraged men who kept on writing.”

Anonymous

I love writing. I have been told that I am very good at it; however dragons from my past can’t believe it. One day I am going to slay that dragon, but right now that dragon, sometimes referred to as doubt consumes me. I won’t divulge the painful reasonings behind my self-doubt; they will go to the grave with me.
Let’s assume, for arguments sake that I am a great writer. I must be. The proof is in the comments of the fifty to a hundred people that have read my work. I love writing; apparently I am good at it. I have one nagging question that remains unanswered. There is one mystery to me that remains a riddle. Why hasn’t one agent seen what my readers see in me? Do agents have a different conception on what can be classified as good? Regular every day Joe’s are the ones who buy most books. Or at least they were the last time I checked.
I just don’t get it.
Shall I say it again? I love writing; it’s the publishing part of the writing I don’t like.
At what point do your dreams become nightmares? When is the correct time to become jaded? When does disappointment become failure? I still have aspirations of getting published. I still hope that my current WIP will be the one to catapult me into a book deal. If not this WIP, then certainly the next or the next or the next.

As I write this, another in a long line of form rejections gracefully falls into my printer’s tray with a soul-shattering thud. Once again an agent, that showed so much promise in the beginning, has proven that she does not share my dream. This agent seduced me with her web site as she beckoned me with her, “this agent is actively building her clients.” How many times have I fallen for that come-hither mesmerizing “this agent represents middle-grade” hypnotizing stare?
It would seem that lessons would have been learned by now. How do we as writers accept getting knocked on our butts, and keep coming back for more? Is it easy for us to see our dreams be dismissed subjectively? How many of us would stop associating with friends that told us that we just didn’t fit in, or were just not right? It is something we as wanna-be-authors face on a daily basis, or ,in some cases, three or four times a day?
Every one of us goes to our email countless times each day, searching for that solitary positive response to our query, coming back empty handed more times than not. We click our inbox closed with our “no news is good news” attitude. We read with interest what other writers say about their queries, and how agent X rejected, or requested a partial, Nano-seconds after they hit send. We wonder why a particular agent has responded to a particular writer, when the same agent has had your query for months without a response.
Well guess what. Rejection is the cold hard fact of the ruthless publishing business. The sooner we accept that 9 out of 10, and sometimes 99 out of 100 queries will get rejected or ignored is all a part of the game and never personal, the sooner we can move on. It’s hard to accept rejection after rejection, after rejection, but we must accept that literary agents do not sit in their offices and choose whose dream to crumble today. Accept that before a flower can grow there needs to be rain, or in my case monsoons.
Each and every one of us is a dreamer. We all chase our own individual rainbow. We all love what we do; writing is a passion for most of us. There is a price we all must pay for our dreams, rainbows are never free. Hope is the price we pay; it’s what gets us through to the next query. There is no doubt we hope our next query is our last query. Without hope there would be no literature.
I have always been a dreamer; I have never given up hope that my dreams will someday be the dreams of the perfect agent.
Give me the patience to accept that which I cannot change, and the courage to hope for my place in the stars.
Never give up. Accept failure with the determination to get it better the next time. Dream the impossible dream, and wish on the evening star.
One day soon, you’ll walk past a reader with their nose in a book and smile and say “that’s me they’re reading.”

MY WRITING PROCESS

Pitch Wars pal, Kai Jordan, tagged me for the #MyWritingProcess blog hop a few weeks ago. So here is my attempt at blog hopping.

What I’m working on
I'm working at keeping my sanity, and I seem to be losing. You should have asked what am I writing, but you didn't, so I can't answer that question, being OCD and all. (okay, if you insist) My WIP is about a man. (satisfied?)

How does my work differ from others in the genre
Tough question. I have a friend, who happens to be an agent, and she once told me that my style of writing is different than anybody she has read. She didn't tell me if that was a good thing or a bad thing. I also seem to have an infinite amount of commas, so I throw them about as if they were confetti, drives my wife and editors MAD.

Why do I write what I do
That's easy.
1-I had no choice. I had to write. It is what my childhood chose for me
2-I write because I want my new imaginary friends to love the same stories that I told my old imaginary friends,
3- I write because I just can't help it

4-Writing is not a job. It's not a hobby. It's a drive, a journey. It's something within us that needs to be released.

5-It keeps me off of the streets and from bothering the villagers,

How does my writing process work?
My writing process is totally whacked. I write when I feel like it, or whenever I can free myself from my Twitter addiction. I need to start at the same hour everyday (1pm) if I miss that hour I'll wait until the following day. If I'm starting a new chapter, or WIP, I prefer to start it on a Monday or the first of the month.
However, I can edit almost anytime, go figure.
 I don't have a play list. I would say that I need silence, but the characters in my head never shut up. They keep me awake at night, which is when I get most of my random ideas. I'll throw plot twist ideas to my wife during commercial breaks.

Who I’m tagging
I’m tagging anybody willing to take on the task.

raballard bio.

I was invisible throughout my schooldays (due to my shyness), I had the lonely child's habit of making up stories and holding conversations with imaginary persons. Invisibility has definite advantages, especially when combined with a vivid imagination. I spent my youth on a raft floating down the Mississippi with my friends Tom, Huck, and Jim. I chased windmills with Don Quixote. I spent summers in Europe, winters in Alaska. Anywhere my imagination could take me. I created magical, fantasy worlds with magical inhabitants.

 

Time does not stand still. Fantasy worlds evolve into mundane, everyday life. As I grew older, my whimsical travels to far off places diminished and my invisibility slowly faded into visibility.

 

All foolish realms were forgotten, pushed into the furthest regions of my mind. I grew up, but a small part of my mind, the part stuffed to overflowing with imaginary worlds, refused to get older. I must have a Peter Pan soul.


Years passed. One failed marriage became two. I found and married my one true love and began my happily ever after. Happiness has certain side effects my creativity yearned to shine. The imaginary world refused to be silenced; they demanded to be heard.


#PitchWars mentors or mentees that happen to stumble into my little blog, welcome. You might have noticed that I didn't give any reason why you should choose me, sorry that's not my style. But if I was forced to choose a reason I suppose it would be that I retired a few years ago after forty years as an engineer, and I've been married long enough to have learned how to follow instructions, and take NO for an answer.


Thank You
Management

I've been avoiding writing this blog like the measles. As this is, (was to be) the release date for CHASING ETERNITY, I can no longer procrastinate. It's time to face my fears, because ignoring them is no longer helping.


Most of you know this, but about a month ago my publisher, Front Porch What's-its-name, closed its doors. There were no warnings, no discussions. Everybody was left holding their published books in their hands not knowing what to do next. I received my edits on Friday, returned them on Saturday and on Sunday I learned of the owner's decision.




I was lucky as they had yet to publish Chasing Eternity, so all it cost me was my dream. I'm now back to chasing rainbows or fighting windmills. I'm flip-flopping once again between self-doubt and confidence, but I must admit that at time the self-doubt is winning.


I suppose the experience might have been worth it. From my ashes I got a good edit. And even if my soaring over the rainbow was brief, the view was amazing. 

I'm flying

 For years I've compared my writing career to that of chasing rainbows. I finally get to soar with the bluebirds.

I'm pleased to announce that after seven long years of dream chasing, windmill fighting and flip-flopping between self-doubt and confidence, I've signed a contract with Front Porch Romance, a small press for my Historical Fiction, Chasing Eternity.

The star

by Ramon Ballard

Jacob sat with his knees curled up to his chin and his back to a wall, excited by the throngs of visitors. His town had doubled and then doubled once again since the decree from Rome. His father was of the lineage of King David, so he and his family didn’t need to journey to pay their required taxes. He loved the constant flow of the crowds, unusual for this small town. He could sit and watch it all day long, if his father would let him.
      The sun was about to set and the shadows would soon become darkened streets, which meant he would soon be forced inside for the night. His attention was inexplicitly drawn to a man guiding a donkey through the crowd. The donkey brayed and hesitated before moving. A young girl, not much older than him sat on the animal. She was very much pregnant. Jacob quickly assumed that she was the obviously much older gentleman’s daughter.
      The man stopped before an Inn and not one of the better Inns mind you, only to be greeted with a shake of the owner’s head. One after another innkeeper’s heads gave the same reply. There was no room to be had.
      My father has a spare room he thought to himself. He rushed forward to tell the man and his daughter the good news, but found that Ezieliel, one of Bethlehem’s elderly blind men, had fallen amongst the crowd and was in danger of being crushed. He looked toward the couple to find they were talking to another keeper. He didn’t know what to do. If he left the old man in the streets, he would surely die but something drew him to the young girl. He took a few steps away from the fallen man, but returned and touched him on his shoulder.
     "Who is there?" the blind man asked.
     "It is Jacob, son of James."
     "I seem to have fallen and have no strength to get up."
     A quick look satisfied Jacob that he could help both Ezieliel and the young girl. With all his might he helped the man to his feet and then looked after the man and his daughter, and frowned when he realized they were no longer in sight. He lost them when he stopped to help the blind man. Without thinking he asked the blind man if he had a place to stay and food to eat.
     "I have none," the blind man confessed.
     "Tonight you will be the guest of my father. He is already sleeping after a long day’s work, but I’m sure he won’t mind," Jacob said, his heart inexplicably warming and a blanket of joy covering his soul.
      That night as he knelt to pray, the room brightened noticeably as a bright star shone brilliantly in the Northern skies. "I wonder how I have not seen that star before."

#

The following morning Jacob’s father ran to where he slept awaking him with a vigorous shake.
     "What is it father?" He knuckled sleep from his eyes and remembered the blind man he had given shelter to without permission. "Please forgive me, father, the old man had nowhere to go last night, and as you were already sleeping when I came home, well I could not ask you. I was sure you would not mind."
    James blinked and scratched his beard. "Old man? You mean Ezieliel? Son you have done the right by offering him shelter for the night." He rustled his son’s unruly hair. "We have more than we could possibly need."
     "Then what troubles you father?"
     "The shepherds are telling all that will listen that they were visited by angels last night," said James wringing his hands in excitement. "Get dressed son, we must be off to Jerusalem."
     Jacob stared at his father. "Jerusalem?"
     "The story the shepherds are telling is they were watching their flocks when they were visited by the angels." His father could not hide his excitement. "They were told that a child was born in a manger during the night. And he would be known as Christ the Lord."
     "Baby? Manger?" asked Jacob.
     "Yes, the shepherds left their flocks and visited the manger, to their amazement they found the child swabbed in swaddling clothes amongst the animals. Praise be to Jehovah."
     "We need to go to the manger at once father." Jacob hurried to dress.
     "I visited, the manger is empty. I can only assume they have gone to the Temple. According to our laws, the babe must be circumcised before eight days old."
     "Did the shepherds tell you about the parents?" Jacob’s mouth went dry.
    "They said nothing about the father, but said the mother was no more than a child herself. Why do you ask?"
    "I think I saw them last night. I wanted to offer them a room here father." He wiped a tear from his eyes. "I failed."
     "You did not fail my son, you helped one less fortunate. I can ask for no more from you." He hugged his son. "Get dressed, I must tell Simeon. He has been waiting so long for the Messiah. Our plight will soon be over."
     "Simeon? Is he the one that has been promised to live until he saw the Messiah?" Jacob said, tying the chord to his robes.

# 

The father and son had travelled less than half way to Jerusalem before they spied a young boy sitting by the side of the road. He sat with his head cupped in his hands and crying uncontrollably
     "Father, we should see if we might be of assistance." Jacob said and he jumped off his mule before his father could stop him.
     "Why do you cry?" Jacob asked.
     The young boy looked up at Jacob, shielding his eyes from the sun. "Five of my flock has run off. I cannot leave the rest to locate them." He rubbed his nose before continuing. "My master will have my hide."
     Jacob sat next to the young boy and placed his arm around him. "Father, you go to Jerusalem by yourself, I will help my new friend locate his sheep, and then return home."
     "We shall find his sheep and return home together," said his father with a gentile smile. "I have a feeling the spirit will tell Simeon. We need to help your friend."

#

Jacob searched in every crowd. There were times he swore he saw them, alas it was always another baby and another mother.
     His father told him, "The baby and family had most likely returned to their homeland, as they were in Bethlehem just to pay taxes. And he should forget about them for the time being."
     Jacob refused to give up at first. But slowly his resolve weakened. A year passed, maybe two. Jacob lost all hope in finding the baby and his mother. Finally a rumor surfaced that three magi and their caravan had been seen in Jerusalem. He heard it on good authority that the wise men had talked to King Herod. It was also said that the Magi were coming to Bethlehem but he never saw them. King Herod’s soldiers thundered into the city instead of the Magi.
    Horror ensued. The soldiers were systematically going from house to house killing every male child. His sister and young nephew’s turn would be next.
     Soldiers trudged through the streets blood dripping from their swords. Cries of anguish and grief filled the air, mothers held the lifeless bodies of their slain children in their arms. Jacob, swept with panic, looked around his kitchen for anywhere he could hide his sister and child his eyes settled on the row of wine and spice barrels against the far wall. Searching frantically, he found an empty spice barrel.
     "Hide inside the barrel and try to keep little Jude still." He held back tears as he watched his sister grab the child and climb into the barrel, her dirty face streaked with tears. "All will be safe. The soldiers can do as they wish with me, but you will be safe. I promise. You must hurry." Despite the imminent danger, Jacob felt a warmness envelop his heart.
     A loud bang on the door startled Jacob as he placed another empty barrel on the one hiding his sister and nephew. The door flew open and three burly soldiers burst through.
      "Are there children in the house?" The largest soldier barked. The other two busied themselves turning over cushions, running swords through draperies. They concentrated on the young boy when nothing was found.
     "No it is just myself and my father, and he is away on business." Jacob felt his heart thumping in his chest, but used all his strength of character to keep his outwardly self-calm. Well, as calm as one could expect when surrounded by blood thirsty killers.
     The steely eyed soldier licked his lips, and without warning nicked Jacob on the cheek with his sword. "You know what happens to boys that lie to King Herod’s soldiers?"
     Jacob held his ground. He refused to rub the blood from his cheek. He smiled and said, "I am alone, my father is away on business. May I offer you and your companion’s refreshments?"      The soldier snarled and barked orders to the others. "This is all the refreshment we require," he said as he raked his sword on Jacob’s leg. "Move out. There is nothing here."
     Jacob ignored his pain as he watched the soldiers ride out of town. He helped his older sister and nephew from the barrel, and comforted her.
     "Jacob, they cut your face. You did that for me?" She hugged him. "Come, we must dress the wound."
     "The wound can wait. I need to see if those I could not save could use comfort." He concealed the wound on his leg until it was almost too late. His cheek wound scarred over and remained with him as a sign of his good deed. His leg became badly damaged and he would walk with a profound limp after that time. It was a small price to pay for the safety of his loved ones.

#

Time piled day upon day and soon year upon year. Jacob’s search for his Messiah waned with the passing of each season. His generosity, kind heart, and care for the less fortunate grew as his hope failed. But in his heart, he believed himself a failure. The only thing he had asked of life was to meet the Messiah and he had failed miserably on several occasions. His lame leg prevented him from making a name for himself like his father. The scar on his face haunted him and was an obstacle in finding himself a wife, although the obstacle was more in his own mind than in the young ladies. Any hope of finding the Messiah faded completely when he and his father moved to Capernaum to get closer to his ailing grandmother. His search for the child ended nearly thirty years after it began.
     He was a failure, plain and simple.
     Finally one day he heard of a preacher from out of the wilderness spreading the word of baptism and love.
     "Jacob, I have witnessed the most wonderful event, please set yourself down and let me tell you."
     "Father, please sit and have your dinner first, you haven’t been eating properly lately. I’m worried about you."
     "But, Jacob."
     "Father, sit down. I have dinner right here. Sit down and eat. Then you can tell me of your exciting events of the day."
     Jacob’s father knelt for supper.
     "Father, have you heard about the Baptist?" Jacob asked.
     His father swabbed the last bit of broth from his plate with a chunk of bread. "Jacob, that’s just what I was trying to tell you. I saw him today by the stream. His message was so compelling that I could not deny the truth." His eyes sparkled as he told Jacob of his new conviction.
     "Is he the one we have searched for these many years?"
     "I thought he might be but his message was, he baptized by water but another would fill our soul with fire."
     Jacob shook his head. "What does that mean?"
     "I really did not know until soon after my conversion and baptism." A glow came to his eyes. "A man came forward, many in the crowd whispered that he was from Nazareth." He placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. "The Baptist told the man that he was unworthy to fasten the man’s sandals. I heard it myself. He also said that the Nazarene should baptize him."
     "The Nazarene could not possibly be the Messiah. The Messiah came from Bethlehem. We were there."       "I thought so too, but I am convinced the Nazarene is our Messiah."
     "Why so father?" Jacob dabbed a tear from his eye.
     "He told the Baptist that it was he who needed baptism, and asked the Baptist to baptize him. I will forever remember what happened after the baptism." He looked toward heaven with his hands outstretched in reverence. "Son, I testify to you that the skies opened and a dove descended and a voice exclaimed THIS IS MY BELOVED SON, IN WHOM I AM WELL PLEASED."
     Jacob jumped up and rushed to the door. "I must find this man from Nazareth."
    "They may have both gone. You must hurry, Son."
     "I spent my day today with an old blind man, tending to his fever. But he passed despite my care. I wasted my day. I should have stayed with you today, Father," Jacob said as he grabbed his cloak from the peg.
     "You did your best. You were where you needed to be." His face contorted as he clutched his chest.
    Jacob rushed to his father as he slumped to the floor. "Father," he cried cradling him in his arms.
     His father looked up, pain etched on his face, spittle on the corner of his mouth. "Go Son, you can find your savior if you hurry."
    "My savior can wait until you recover Father. He can wait."

#

Jacob's father improved slightly over the next few weeks. Jacob spent all of his time either sleeping or caring for him. He sat by his father's side applying a wet cloth on his feverish forehead. When the condition worsened Jacob prayed and held his father's hand tight.
     "You have been a faithful son," he said, his breath shallow and labored. "Go, follow your heart. I will survive. I have burdened you for far too long." He closed his eyes and sighed as his grip loosened.
     Jacob did not have the time to answer his father.
      The door flew open without a knock and his neighbor rushed in. "You should have been there, Jacob."
     "Been where Isaac?" Jacob asked, taking his watchful eyes from his father briefly.
     "The hill outside of the city of course." Isaac could scarcely hold back his excitement. "How is your father?"
     "He is resting." Jacob glanced at his sleeping father for any signs of breathing. "What happened on the hills?" He asked in a hushed voice.
     "The new Rabbi, Jesus, taught us." Isaac looked to one side and then another. "He fed the multitude with a few fish and even less bread."
     "The Messiah is in town? He is here now?"
    "Some call him the Messiah, after today I too believe him to be the One prophesied about."
     "What did he teach?" Jacob questioned his friend. "Did he say what we are to do about the Romans?"
     "That is just it, he is preaching peace. He preached that the poor in spirit will be blessed."
    "What does that mean?" Jacob quizzed.
     "He said that the poor have a Kingdom in heaven and those that mourn will be comforted. The meek shall inherit the earth."
     "Why would the meek want the earth?" Jacob laughed.       "The Rabbi said more, but I cannot remember all. The pure of heart are blessed, the peacemakers, and the merciful also." Isaac caught his breath before continuing. "He taught us how to pray also."
     "I know how to pray. I have been praying for my father’s recovery."
     "Perhaps you are praying for the wrong thing, my dear friend."
     Jacob hung his head low. "What shall I pray for?"
     "Go ask the Rabbi, he has performed miracles. It is said he has healed the sick, and your father is sick, is he not?"
     "Yes. Did you hear that father? The Messiah is nearby, I have faith he can heal your ailment." Jacob rushed to his father side. "Does the Messiah raise from the dead?" A tear rushed down his cheek, a drop at first, followed by a raging river of tears.
     "Not that I know of, my dear friend, not that I know of."

#

Jacob was alone for the first time in his life. He searched for the new Messiah, but could never get close. His limp  become more pronounced and it became harder for him to get around. He returned to Bethlehem to the care of his nephew, rejected and a failure. His was over forty and had nothing to show for his life.
     "Uncle," his nephew said as he entered the doorway. "The Messiah is in Jerusalem for Passover."
    A spark of energy filled Jacob’s bosom. "I am unable to walk, it is too far."
     "I will carry you Uncle," his nephew insisted.
     "I am too ill, maybe in a few days." Jacob coughed into a rag, concealing the blood left behind.
     "I will seek him Uncle; I will bring him to you, if I can. It is said he has raised Lazarus from the dead. I am sure he can heal you."
     "Thank you, you have been kind to me, a lame useless man. I am grateful for your assistance."
     "The privilege has been all mine. Rest, I shall return."
     Jacob was unaware of how long he had waited. Darkness permeated the day.
     A bright light pierced the darkness, and Jacob held his hands to his eyes, shielding his sight.
     "Jacob, my wise and faithful servant, I am well pleased, you have served me well."    "That is not so, my Lord. When have I had the pleasure of serving you? We have never met. I have always either been behind you or ahead of you." Jacob’s lips quivered. "My life has been a failure."
      "When I was tired, you gave me rest. When I was afraid, you gave me comfort. When I was lost, you found me. When I hungered, you fed me. When I was sick, you consoled me."
      "Nay, I have not done any of that for you my Lord. You have the wrong person."      "Jacob, if you have done it unto the least of your brothers, you have done it unto me. Follow me now Jacob. You have earned your reward."
        Jacob’s nephew entered the house, his heart heavy and his eyes red from tears. He wished he had better news to tell his Uncle. The Messiah, the living son of God had been crucified during the night. How could he tell his Uncle, who had searched so diligently for his savior for so many years that he was dead?        He found Jacob, lying in his bed with a look of total peace and contentment.
     Jacob had found his Messiah.

#.

It's the season for remembrance of our Savior's birth, and his ultimate act of kindness. A random act of kindness costs very little and takes almost none of our time. We should all pay it forward from this day hence. Change your problems one smile at a time. Spread your sunshine to the less fortunate.

"You may be only one person in this world, but to one person at one time, you are the world."