Translator: Denise RQ Reviewer: Lena Clemente
We make a living by what get.
We make a life by what we give.
I can't tell you exactly when I realized the impact giving had on me.
I know that for as long as I can remember,
I felt a strong, sometimes paralyzing presence of empathy for others.
I constantly feel compelled to give,
even just tiny ways that I know will help to brighten someone's day.
My therapist tells me it's because I've been there.
When I see someone
who's cold, hungry, scared, or struggling, I can relate.
And I know firsthand
everyday kindness and simple giving can change a person's life.
The story of my childhood is a rather unconventional one,
even for a child of the early 70s.
It started out pretty typical.
My dad sold luxury cars,
and my mom worked part-time
because she was mostly focused on raising me.
We owned a little house in an all-American neighborhood,
and I spent my days riding a red tricycle, cuddling my kitten,
and playing on the swing set in my backyard.
But just after my third birthday, my parents divorced.
And like so many children, going through a divorce isn't all that unusual.
Where things got interesting
was in the unique way that my parents handled the split.
My dad went off to live life on his own terms,
and I didn't typically see him that much.
My mom decided to fulfill her dream of living life off the grid.
And I had no choice but to go along for the ride.
The quickest way for my mom to get off the grid
was to move to Lawrence, Colorado, a late-1800s ghost town,
a mile and a half outside of Victor, Colorado.
In its heyday, more gold came out of this area
than the Alaska and California gold rushes combined.
But by the time we arrived, the gold rush was long gone,
along with the town's residents and original structures.
Our new home and hometown
consisted of a small barning cabin
perched at nearly 9,700 feet.
Our new mountain home had no running water or electricity,
just a wood-burning cook stove for heat, kerosene lanterns for light,
and an outhouse about 30 yards away,
which you can be sure felt like 30 miles in a blizzard.
Our closest source for drinking water was the spigot in front of Victor City Hall.
We'd collect empty gallon milk jugs from friends and family,
fill as many as we had with water,
and then haul them home in the back of our VW Bug
that had been converted into the world's smallest pickup truck.
(Laughter)
On the sunny days in my little ghost town,
my mom would open the front door,
and the pony Goldie and the goat Rhoda were allowed inside the house.
When it rained, my mom sent me outside with a bottle of shampoo
to stand under the gutter and wash my hair.
Nature's shower was cold,
but it was much quicker and easier than hauling and heating water.
And with the ghost town all to ourselves,
we took turns being the town mayor and police chief.
We celebrated small things like monthly birthdays
and saving enough money to go into town and buy a cheeseburger
and play Dolly Parton on the jukebox at Zeek's Bar.
By the age of five, I could drive a stickshift, hotwire a car
- Don't ask -
(Laughter)
carry six-gallon jugs of water at a time,
and chop enough wood to get a warm fire going.
I was basically a modern day Laura Ingalls Wilder
with my very own little house on the prairie.
Living off the grid taught me
a lot about hard work, simple pleasures, and being resourceful.
It was also just as tough and full of struggle as you might imagine.
In addition to the daily grind of living without running water or electricity,
my mom worked one or two jobs at a time.
But good paying jobs in our area were hard to come by,
and we frequently struggled to make ends meet.
In addition to that,
the months that my dad didn't pay child support
far, far outweighed the ones he did.
So as I learned about
the fine line between having enough and struggling to get by,
I began to learn other things as well.
I learned what it felt like to be truly cold.
On winter nights, the temperature would frequently drop below 32 degrees,
and the water in the milk jugs would freeze inside the house.
So I learned that getting dressed for school the night before
meant an extra layer of warmth while I was sleeping,
one that I didn't have to get changed >out of in the morning
when it was time to get ready.
I learned to recognize
the sounds the pack rat made roaming around at night,
rummaging through our house
for things she thought she needed more than us, like walnuts or socks.
I learned that there wasn't always room in the budget
for things we all take for granted, like toilet paper.
So newspaper became our one-ply replacement.
I wouldn't say that it was squeezably soft, but it did the job.
I learned that old cars don't always like to start,
especially when it's cold.
So getting to the bus stop might include
my mom walking through the snow in freezing cold temperatures,
pulling me on my pony behind her for nearly two miles.
I also learned about food distribution,
and that the days we drove to pick up the food stamps were good days,
but if they ran out before the end of the month,
we knew the grocery store sometimes threw out food,
and if we went into their dumpster after they closed,
we could typically find enough to make a few simple meals,
and maybe even a treat for my cats.
So how did I get from that ghost town to this stage?
How did I keep my head up and find the bright spots
in sometimes, dim situations?
How did I learn to find the positive no matter how many negatives?
I'm convinced it's because of the people
who reached out and gave without even realizing
how important their kindness and simple gifts were to me and my mom.
Our closest neighbors offered to babysit me in their home at 4:00 a.m.,
so my mom could make it to her restaurant job on time.
They made warm sourdough pancakes, every single morning,
which filled my little body with much-needed energy and hope.
At their house, I met my best friend,
and I enjoyed simple luxuries like indoor plumbing.
And yes, honest-to-goodness toilet paper,
which meant I could just use the bathroom
without having to decide whether or not a trip to the outhouse was worth it.
Another family's lighthearted and fun nature taught me
that even though life can be tough,
it's a lot easier if you look for and hold onto the joy.
They also treated me as if I was their own daughter,
which allowed me to dream about
what my life might look like someday when I had a family of my own.
These kind, generous people and so many more
taught me that giving, in any form,
makes the dark days brighter
and the hopeless days shimmer with hope.
They taught me that everyone deserves kindness,
and that we are not our darkest days.
Their kindness also helped to set me on a positive path,
which allowed me to realize my dreams:
college graduate, successful business owner,
wife to the world's most amazing husband,
mom to two of the greatest boys,
and a life where it's easy for me to see the opportunities
to make someone's day better.
So I'm asking you to do two things:
think back and remember one time
when someone's kindness made an impact on your life:
maybe it was a hug, or a shoulder to cry on,
or just a few simple words of encouragement
when you needed them most;
and then consider
what acts of kindness or small, simple gifts can you act on?
A heartfelt card to a coworker going through a tough time,
a sincere smile for the young mom or dad
with a toddler throwing a tantrum in the middle of the grocery store,
a little more compassion for the elderly person
who has a tough time hearing,
or maybe just doesn't remember things like they used to.
And sure, it's that cliche cup of coffee you offer to buy
for the person behind you in line.
It's easy to get overwhelmed by the thought of giving,
to feel like we're not doing enough,
or that we can't make a difference without massive amounts of time or money.
But I'm here to tell you:
your kindness makes all the difference in the world
and without even knowing why, or how, it could help to change somebody's life,
sending them down a different path
than the one that was plotted before you arrived.
Thank you.
(Applause)