I want to tell you a story about my friend Liam...

I woke up this past Sunday and spent the morning soaking up my kids, talking at length about our friend.

Liam would have been 16 had cancer not ripped him away, too early, exactly 10 years ago. This photo hung in our beloved apple seeds indoor playground for years...he was like our little mayor.

In a kind of prayer for him, my daughters Maddie and Sydney shared stories of his scooter in preschool, his contagious smile, his fireman costume and what they remembered about visiting him in the hospital when things got worse.

We talked about how much he honored and loved to play, squeezing the joy out of every second of his short life, even skateboarding around the hospital.

Gratitude and perspective… these are only some of the lessons we continue to cherish, lessons we gained from our angel.

He also taught us that play is not frivolous and that joy is choice. It was in fact necessary to help him get through the hardest battles a person has to face.

Every year on that anniversary morning, I write about Liam and I’m blown away by the amount of synchronicity that occurs in my life around this boy, as if the universe is reminding me there are indeed angels.

Case in point:

The year before Covid, I decided at the last minute to run the Tunnel to Tower 5k race in NYC with my sister Jill. A moving tribute to the firemen, women, and first responders who gave their lives as heroes on 9/11, the run includes hundreds of servicemen and women running in their full, heavy uniforms.

Most ran in groups with their firehouses, and the energy was positive and powerful.

Somewhere in the middle of the tunnel, I ran up to a fully suited fireman running alone, and we began to talk. I learned he was from …Califon, NJ, the tiny town where Liam’s family has a home! It’s also the town of Cookies for Kids Cancer, the remarkable nonprofit that has raised MILLIONS of dollars for pediatric cancer thanks to the tireless work of Liam’s parents, Gretchen and Larry.

So…

The fireman’s station? Califon.

His name? Liam.

His number? 44, the street they live on in NYC.

His smile? Calm, singular and knowing.

We happily spoke for a while, but I decided to leave him to run at his pace, in peace. I ran ahead thinking of Brave Liam.

It’s hard to understand why, as my foot crossed the finish line, I looked up to see fireman Liam crossing at the very same second, even though I never saw him once in the 2 miles after I raced ahead, in a race that included thousands of runners.

As he kind of vanished in the crowd, my faith strengthened, renewing my trust that there is indeed something greater guiding us—if and when we look for it.

Thank you Liam for continuing to remind us of the lessons you embodied.