The Gifts of the Day Part 2
September 2, 2026
One of today’s gifts was finding a book that had been given to Lark and me by our dear friends Buddy and Charlotte.
Over the decades of our friendship, they have given us many gifts—not only things that can be wrapped and opened, but the far greater gifts of presence, loyalty, laughter, and love. They have walked beside us through trials and tribulations, celebrated with us in times of joy, and shared countless experiences that have become part of the treasured memories of our lives.
Buddy and Charlotte knew the story of my encounter with Elbert Hubbard’s unusual little book, Essay on Silence—a story I reflected on several weeks ago. When I was a graduate student, I wanted to reference Hubbard’s thoughts on silence. At the time, the only copy I could locate was in the rare-book collection at Yale’s Beinecke Library. Because of library policy, I had to handle the rare book with gloves and examine it under carefully controlled conditions.
I remember anticipating what Hubbard might have to say about silence. Then I opened the book. It was blank. Page after page contained no words at all. Hubbard had created the perfect essay on silence. He had communicated his message without saying a word. Years later, that little book would come to mean something far more personal.
About three years ago, our beloved cocker spaniels, Repsu and Hope, died. For sixteen years, those little lives had accompanied us through almost everything. They were woven into the fabric of our home and our hearts. They had been beside us through ordinary days and joyful ones, but they had also comforted us through losses almost too painful to name.
They were not simply our pets. They were companions of the soul. Buddy and Charlotte knew Repsu and Hope well, and they understood how deeply Lark and I loved them. In the same way, over the years we have known and loved their dogs—Huey, Tick, Daisy, Katie, Zack, and now Zoe.
One gloomy day, not long after Repsu and Hope died, a package arrived. Inside was our very own copy of Elbert Hubbard’s rare little book, Essay on Silence. With it was a note:
“Lark and Joe,
May the joyful memories of Repsu and Hope fill the silence of their absence.
Love, Charlotte and Buddy”
Suddenly, the blank pages of Hubbard’s book meant something entirely different. The silence was no longer merely clever or philosophical. It had become the silence of two little beings who were no longer padding through our house, greeting us at the door, sleeping nearby, or simply being present.
And yet Buddy and Charlotte’s message reminded us that absence is not always emptiness. Sometimes memory enters the silence. Sometimes love does. Today, finding that book again became one of the gifts of the day. I had forgotten where we had placed it, but Lark remembered the special place we had made for it after it arrived and after we first “read” it. This is the very month in which we lost Repsu and Hope three years ago.
And so today, unexpectedly, they came back to us—not physically, of course, but through a little book, the tenderness of dear friends, and the memories that still live within us.
Spiritual Practice
At the end of this day, become still for a moment and look back over the hours you have lived.
Search for something that came to you—a happening, an encounter, an insight, a memory that suddenly flashed before you, an unexpected kindness, or something small that met a need you may not even have realized you carried.
Do not ask whether it was dramatic. Ask: What gift came to me today?
Inquiry
Why is it so easy to pass over the gifts that come to us each day?
What might change if we began to recognize that some of life’s deepest gifts arrive quietly—disguised as ordinary moments, memories, discoveries, and acts of love?
Prayer
Dear God,
For the compassion of dear friends who, in their love for us, reflect something of your infinite compassion, I am deeply thankful.
Open my eyes to the gifts that come quietly into my life and give me a heart awake enough to receive them.
Amen
