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It was all the names that did me in. Sunday's Light [the] Hill luminaria "celebration of hope" at Kershaw Park was so much more impactful than I could had imagined.  More than beautiful, more than sacred, more than a peaceful walk along the lake . The half-mile stretch of 900 lights — each with a name carefully handwritten — was a silent testimony of lifetimes of love, family, hard work, service, personality and story. I was awed in the presence of a ll that living, all that dying, and all those precious relationships.   When my dad passed last June, I knew it would take months for the reality to sink in. And it's starting to, a little, which is why it was so easy to appreciate the depth and breadth of the love that families were experiencing as they walked the length of the park, reading their loved  ones' names. It felt good to smile and remember without doubling over in pain. It felt good to cry quiet, healing tears.  So thank you, 900 luminarias and Ligh...

Golden boy. Beloved by his community, his friends, his classmates, and oh, so loved by his family. Cream of the crop. Smartest of the smart. Record breaker. Overachiever. Mr. Potential. Alex had the whole world at his feet. But his life ended in mystery, controversy, and sensationalism. He was found dead in his fraternity house, and the press went the distance to report it. His cause of death was eventually released only to family members. The rest of us will never know. Frankly, I think it's nobody's business but his mom's, dad's, and siblings'. Alex — I thought you were a smart, enterprising, inquisitive, inspiring, innovative young man. I was cheering for you. I wanted you to win. I loved getting to meet you and see you in action. I'm so sorry that you're gone, and will never know what could have been. I hope you knew how much people loved and looked up to you. I hope you didn't die feeling like you were invincible. I so wanted to see you ac...

I'm not ok with it. Not any of it. I had just returned to the newsroom last night to file a quick story before heading home when I got the call: MVA with injuries and entrapment in Farmington. No problem, I thought. I'll dash out and snap a few photos, write a quick summary and be on my way. That's not how it played out. On this night, the deserted country crossroad — usually blanketed in darkness — was lit up like Times Square. Flashing emergency lights from hastily parked trucks were harsh and glaring — they made my eyes burn and my heart beat harder. As pulled over and got out of my van, I knew instantly that this one was going to be different. The rain streamed down and I could see portable spotlights pooling light over two mangled vehicles conjoined in a nearby field. Dozens of first responders circled the mess, forming a barrier. They weren't working, they were waiting — and barely talking. Not a good sign, ever. I paced back and forth slowly for over an hour, ...

Lauren Vassello She's got her own identity. She's got her own name, her own job, her own life. But in my mind, she will always be Lauren's mom. And she made me rethink what it means to be a mother. I was struggling last week to write a tribute about her beautiful 13-year-old daughter who, after battling an extremely rare and aggressive form of cancer, passed away. It was just one year ago that the family had been blind-sided with the devastating diagnosis. I called Stephany and clumsily stumbled through a few awkward, shallow questions. I felt like I was trampling on holy ground. Then I said, "tell me about Lauren." For the next hour I did nothing but type and listen. This super-human mom recounted her daughter's journey from the first phone call from the doctor to her final moments in the hospital, reciting every detail with the driven automation of a machine, the precision of a surgeon, and the energy of a tornado. She seemed to be on a mission to ret...