Excellent Things

During my comedy show in Spokane this weekend, a man, Mr. Wende, suffered a heart attack and collapsed while I was on stage. Instantly, the audience leapt into action—taking turns performing CPR, clearing space for paramedics, and monitoring his vitals. For over five minutes, he had no pulse, but through a miracle and the relentless efforts of those in the room, they brought him back to life. I’ve never witnessed anything like it. Strangers united, setting aside differences for one shared mission: saving Mr. Wende.
The next day, my friends Akeem Hoyte-Charles and Rachel Aflleje joined me to visit him in the hospital, where we finished the show for him. Laughing with his family for hours in that hospital room reminded me why comedy matters. In a divided world full of pain and uncertainty, we often forget how fragile life is and how, beneath it all, we’re all human. Gratitude to Spokane, the medical team, and the Wende family for showing me the power of community and introducing me to this remarkable man.
📸 (Photo: Drew Lynch)
Credit: Drew Lynch

At my yard sale today, a sweet young girl and her mother stopped by. Among my items was a Pink Disney Princess TV for sale—because who wouldn’t want one? I overheard the six-year-old politely ask her mom if she could earn the money to buy it, not just have it given to her. Her mom gently explained they couldn’t afford it right now and kissed her forehead. The girl simply replied, “It’s okay, Mommy,” and held her mom’s hand.
As they shopped, carefully counting every penny, they picked out only essentials. The girl admired some dishes, noting how nice it would be to have more than one cup and bowl in their new home, and how lucky they felt. Their bond was so heartfelt, it was clear they’d faced tough times together.
The girl occasionally glanced at the TV, and my heart softened.
When her mom came to pay for their items, I told her, “Please, take these for free.” Tears welled in her eyes as she thanked me, saying how much it meant. When she asked why, I replied, “I can see you’ve been through something hard, and you don’t need to share the details. But you’re still an incredible mom, raising a kind, joyful, and wonderful girl.”
She shared that they had escaped an abusive situation, taking only what fit in a duffle bag. She’d saved just enough for a small one-room apartment, and they finally felt safe.
I handed her two large garbage bags and invited her to fill them with anything useful—pillows, blankets, a blow-up camping bed, and a box of food. She hesitated, almost embarrassed, so I reassured her: “We all face tough times. This season will pass, and when it does, you can pay it forward.”
Then, quietly, I asked if I could give her daughter the Disney Princess TV. You probably saw that coming!
The joy on that girl’s face when my husband carried the TV to their car was unforgettable. Knowing they now have full stomachs, clean pajamas, a bed, pillows, blankets, and maybe some TV time warms my heart.
What they may not know is that they blessed me more than I blessed them.
(Original author credited.)

In Katharine Hepburn’s words:
As a teenager, I stood in line with my father to buy circus tickets. Just one family stood between us and the counter, and they left a lasting mark on me. Eight children, all under 12, were dressed in clean but modest clothes, clearly not from wealth. They stood in pairs, well-mannered, holding hands, buzzing with excitement about the clowns, animals, and acts they’d see—likely their first circus ever, a moment to treasure.
Their parents stood proudly at the front. The mother gazed at her husband, her eyes saying, “You’re my hero.” He smiled, basking in his family’s joy. When the ticket lady asked how many tickets, he said with pride, “Eight children’s and two adult tickets.” Then she gave the price.
The mother’s hand slipped from his, her head bowed. His lip trembled. He leaned closer and asked, “How much?” She repeated the price. He didn’t have enough. How could he face his eight kids and say they couldn’t go?
My father, seeing this, pulled a $20 bill from his pocket and dropped it on the ground. We weren’t wealthy. He picked it up, tapped the man’s shoulder, and said, “Excuse me, sir, this fell out of your pocket.” The man knew what was happening—not charity, but a lifeline in a heartbreaking moment. He looked into my father’s eyes, clasped his hand around the bill, and with a tear on his cheek, said, “Thank you, sir. This means the world to me and my family.”
We returned to our car and drove home, the $20—our own ticket money—gone. We didn’t see the circus, but the joy we felt surpassed any show. That day, I learned the true power of giving. The giver’s greatness outshines the receiver’s gain. To be truly great, give everything, expecting nothing. Love is about what you give, not what you get. The joy of giving, of blessing others, is unmatched—learn to make someone happy through selfless acts.

At a morning breakfast, a pastor asked an elderly farmer in bib overalls to say grace.
“Lord, I hate buttermilk,” the farmer started. The visiting pastor peeked with one eye, curious where this was headed.
“Lord, I hate lard,” the farmer declared loudly. The pastor’s concern grew.
Unfazed, the farmer went on, “And Lord, you know I don’t care for raw white flour.” The pastor glanced around, noting others’ discomfort.
Then the farmer concluded, “But Lord, when you mix them together and bake them, I love warm, fresh biscuits. So, when life brings things we don’t like, when it gets tough, or when we don’t understand your plan, help us trust and wait for your mixing to finish. It’ll likely be better than biscuits. Amen.”
Alright, carry on.

At 21, I graduated from the Detroit police academy at 4:00 p.m., took a quick nap, and by 9:30 p.m., reported for my first midnight shift at the 12th Precinct. Beaming with pride, I wore my dad’s badge from his 25-year career, carried my mom’s sergeant stripe in my pocket, tucked a lucky $2 bill into my bulletproof vest, and strapped on a gun I was barely old enough to buy ammo for. Brimming with naive courage, I stepped out the door as my mom snapped this photo.
The next 17 years brought blood, black eyes, torn ligaments, stab wounds, stitches, and funerals. A head injury left me with permanent nerve damage, five ruptured discs, PTSD, and depression. I missed Christmases with family, friends’ birthdays, and concerts due to late calls, enduring countless sleepless nights. I’ve lain in wet grass for hours tracking burglars, dodged bullets chasing a suspect down a dark alley, and pleaded with women too scared to leave abusive partners. I’ve peeled a burned baby’s body from my uniform, cuffed a serial ra**st with pride, and wept over my academy classmate’s bloodied body, kissing his cheek despite the bullet holes. I know the sound of a bullet whizzing past, a mother’s scream upon learning her son was killed, and the weight of telling a wife and mother of three that her husband died in a crash on his way home.
These sights, sounds, and smells are etched in my mind—haunting memories we officers volunteer to face so you don’t have to. I never went to work planning to harm anyone; I went to protect good people, even if it meant risking my life.
We need more compassion and understanding. Violence doesn’t solve violence, and hate doesn’t heal hate. I’ve seen both sides since leaving the force, and I get it. Cops aren’t perfect; some are bad. But most are good, loving people with families, bills, and hearts—just like you. They’re not robots; they’re here to keep the wolves from the sheep. The rare few who don’t deserve the badge shouldn’t fuel this cycle of anger.
If you’ve read this far, thank you. I won’t ask you to cut ties if you disagree with me. Instead, I invite you to talk, vent, or pray together. Let’s find solutions, because if we’re not part of the answer, we’re part of the problem. Love to all—every one of you. We’re better than this. ❤️✌🏼
Credit: Merri McGregor

René was the only man I ever kissed or loved, despite our 26-year age gap. We met when he was just 12, and by 1981, at 38, he was so touched by one of my demos that he mortgaged his house to fund my first album—long before my $500 million fortune. Our 21-year love story gave us three children and an unbreakable bond. Since his passing in January 2016 after fighting cancer, I’ve had no interest in new love. My heart remains his, fulfilled by our children, my fans, and my team. Each night, I imagine him beside me, and every performance carries his presence. I still feel married to René, and he’ll always be part of me.
—Céline Dion

While shopping with her kids at the closing Payless Shoe Store in Alma, Carrie Jernigan’s daughter asked if they could buy an extra pair of Avengers-themed shoes for a classmate whose shoes were too small. Jernigan gladly agreed to purchase the shoes for her daughter’s friend. On a whim, she asked the cashier how much it would cost to buy the store’s remaining inventory. The district manager later called with the price for about 1,500 boxes of shoes, and Jernigan seized the opportunity. Since that day in May, she and her family have been distributing the shoes to children in need in their community.
Credit: GOOD NEWS NETWORK

My six-year-old son, Grant, has a prominent Port Wine Stain birthmark on his face. For years, it didn’t faze him much, but this past year in kindergarten, it’s been tough. Not because of its appearance, but because strangers constantly ask, “What happened to your face?” or “What’s wrong with your face?” His standard reply, “It’s just a birthmark,” once said matter-of-factly, now carries exhaustion from explaining it endlessly. Some comments, like a medical tech’s thoughtless remark—“I thought you got punched in the face”—cut deep.
One day at school, Grant took a bathroom pass and met a boy he didn’t know. As usual, the boy asked about his face. Grant gave his rehearsed answer. But then, something different happened. The boy said, “Well, your birthmark is really cool,” and asked if Grant ever felt hurt by people’s questions or teasing. When Grant admitted he did, the boy responded, “Stick up for yourself, kid.” Grant came home beaming, thrilled that a stranger had said something “nice” about his birthmark.
Determined to find this kind-hearted boy, I spent weeks tracking him down to thank him and his parents. I assumed he was a confident fourth or fifth grader. I was wrong. His name is Tucker, and he’s a shy, gentle first grader. His teacher and parents, who were deeply moved, described him as reserved and introverted. Tucker, who’d faced hurtful comments himself, broke through his shyness to connect with Grant. He even told his parents about his new “kindergarten friend with white hair,” not mentioning the birthmark at all. Now, these two boys, who attend the same before-school care but never noticed each other due to Tucker’s quiet nature, are becoming friends. Playdates are in the works—Tucker’s excited for pool time, while Grant, wary of Tucker’s dog, is pushing for a park meetup. Seeing their budding friendship, born from empathy, courage, and genuine kindness, fills my heart with joy. Here’s to their new adventure!
Credit: A Love What Matters via Facebook
Author: Madeline Schmidt

A wedding photo captured hearts worldwide after going viral online. In it, a bride and groom sit side by side, holding hands, their heads bowed. The bride weeps quietly, and the groom gazes downward. What could it mean? A last-minute argument? A change of heart? A sudden deployment to the front? A confession of past mistakes? None of these.
Corporal Caleb Earwood wanted a moment of prayer with his bride-to-be before their vows, dedicating it to their future marriage. Honoring the tradition that the groom shouldn’t see the bride before the ceremony, they kept their eyes averted, connected only by their clasped hands as they prayed together.
The photographer, moved by the scene, called it one of the most emotional moments he’d ever captured at a wedding. Soon after this heartfelt exchange, the couple shared an intimate ceremony by a lake.
May their prayer for a strong marriage be answered.
Credit: Respective owner

In spring 1945, as Ravensbrück concentration camp was liberated, snow lingered on the ground like a fading echo of winter. Among the freed, emaciated women stood Zofia Kowalska, a Polish schoolteacher from Kraków, her body frail under a worn, patched coat. When Red Army soldiers directed her to trucks bound for freedom, Zofia hesitated. She couldn’t leave yet.
In her barrack, she retrieved the coat from a nail by her bunk—a tattered garment held together by stitches. Embroidered across it were names: Helena, Marta, Lotte, Greta, Salomea… Each patch, sewn with thread scavenged from mattresses and scraps, bore the name of a friend. Every stitch held a memory of whispered prayers, shared grief, and unyielding courage.
In the camp’s final months, Zofia had vowed: If I survive, I’ll carry them with me. The coat was her testament, each name a life that had endured alongside her. When a liberation officer questioned her attachment to the ragged coat, Zofia whispered, “They can’t walk with me, but I can carry them.”
As she stepped past the gates, snowflakes fell on the embroidered names, blending with her tears. Ravensbrück was free, but Zofia carried its memory forward. Her coat now rests in a Warsaw museum, its fragile seams a powerful tribute—not carved in stone, but stitched by trembling hands in a place where humanity was meant to vanish, yet persisted.

After my prenatal appointment this morning, my husband and I stopped by Walmart in Evans to grab a few items. As we headed toward the refrigerated section, we saw a woman who had fainted and collapsed on the floor. As a registered nurse, I immediately stopped to assess and assist her. She was alert but mentioned being on blood thinners and feeling dizzy. I stayed with her, alongside her daughter and Walmart staff, urging her to stay seated until the ambulance arrived. The Walmart team was exceptional, staying in touch with dispatch as we waited.
Then there was Jason—whose last name I don’t know. Without hesitation, this man knelt on the floor, supporting the woman’s back so she could lean against him. He wasn’t asked; he simply acted out of kindness. Another man paused, knelt, and prayed over her. What I witnessed was pure, unconditional love and service—humans helping humans, unbound by race or obligation. This is real life, rooted in compassion, not hate. ❤️

This morning, I walked my son to his kindergarten class, both of us bundled against the cold, pressed close with other parents and kids waiting for the bell. I noticed you and your son nearby, and when our eyes met, I looked down, hoping you didn’t recognize us. I hoped you didn’t know my son as “that kid”—the one struggling to adjust this school year.
I’ve heard what kids say about him, how they tell their parents he’s “bad” for pushing, hitting, or defying teachers—refusing to sit, stay quiet, or line up. My son comes home saying, “Mark called me bad today,” or “Aiden’s dad says I can’t play with him.” It breaks my heart because I know he’s struggling, and we’re trying everything—school specialists, home strategies, classes, books, you name it.
When you looked at my son and said, “You must be K,” I managed a sheepish smile, almost apologizing for his reputation. I quietly told you we’re aware of his behavior, that we’re working hard to address it. I braced for a lecture or a story about what K did to your son. Instead, you shared something unexpected: your older son faced similar challenges at this age and is now a straight-A high schooler. You didn’t judge—you offered hope, an olive branch, showing me I have an ally at drop-off.
You could’ve ignored us, judged us, or told me what you’ve heard about my son—you wouldn’t have been the first. But you chose grace and kindness, lifting me up in a way I can’t fully express. I told you I’d love to hear more about your journey with your son, and I meant it. I’ll call you, not just for advice, but because you’re the kind of friend I want in my life. You’re a good person.
Credit: Celeste Yvonne