At a funeral, I experienced a profound moment of clarity to start my year. A husband and wife had died within a month of each other, on the cusp of retirement, and both of them were being remembered at the calling and service I was attending that afternoon.

In the calling line, I greeted the mother of the deceased, who was 90 years old. She was small, frail, usually seated, with eyes as bright as they were when she was 9. She took my hand, patted it, and said, “We don’t teach Him. He doesn’t need my help. This is just how it should be.”