【推荐1】One of the most important things that has happened to me occurred long before I was aware of it. As the story goes, I was three days old and Mom was singing “The Name Game” song to me: “Christine Bo-Bean-Banana-Fanna-Fo-Feen.” By day four, I was given a new name ---- Christine-Bo-Bean, or just Bo-Bee to my mother. Now, I am Bo to her and close friends.

Why is this nickname（昵称）so important to me? I once read a book with a passage about True Names which explains that when a person’s true name is spoken, she has a distinct aura（光环）around her. Although I have been Bo to my mother all my life, I recently discovered that my true name is not on my birth certificate; it’s the name that is as unique and memorable as I am.

People usually know me as Christine. They still see me as a quiet, bookish child. They don’t know who I am now. My most recent hopes, fears, goals, dreams and opinions escape their notice; it is easier to think of me as I was. In their minds, they have a box labeled “Christine” in which I fit neatly, and as Christine, I was content with the perfect packaging.

Those who call me Bo or Bo-Bee really know me. They remember who I was and realize I have changed. Bo is a tight squeeze in the old “Christine” boxes. The Bo I am is ever-changing, ever-growing and ever-learning.

When I was Christine, I was quiet, and easily scared. I feared groups, meeting new people and sharing my opinions. I was more comfortable with a book than my best friend. As Christine, I thought everyone was better than I was.

As Bo, I still love my books, but I want to discuss them. As Bo, my dream is to live where I can experience new things and meet new people. I dream about being alone on a stage lit by a single spotlight; I have that confidence now. I am equal to those I once saw as better than me.

A name shouldn’t make such a difference, but sometimes, when a person finds his or her True Name, they develop a new shine visible to friends, family and especially themselves.

I can’t always be Bo. Sometimes exposing myself is still scary and I feel too nervous; I want to hide in those old boxes. Mostly, however, I am ready for the world. So, just call me Bo.

【推荐3】I arrived at my mother’s home for our Monday family dinner. The smells of food flew over from the kitchen. Mother was pulling out quilt (被子) after quilt from the boxes, proudly showing me their beauties. She was preparing for a quilt show at the Elmhurst Church. When we began to fold and put them back into the boxes, I noticed something at the bottom of one box. I pulled it out. “What is this?” I asked.

“Oh?” Mom said, “That’s Mama’s quilt.”

I spread the quilt. It looked as if a group of school children had pieced it together; irregular designs, childish pictures, a crooked line on the right.

“Grandmother made this?” I said, surprised. My grandmother was a master at making quilts. This certainly didn’t look like any of the quilts she had made.

“Yes, right before she died. I brought it home with me last year and made some changes,” she said. “I’m still working on it. See, this is what I’ve done so far.”

I looked at it more closely. She had made straight a crooked line. At the center of the quilt, she had stitched (缝) a piece of cloth with these words: “My mother made many quilts. She didn’t get all lines straight. But I think this is beautiful. I want to see it finished. Her last quilt.”

“Ooh, this is so nice, Mom,” I said. It occurred to me that by completing my grandmother’s quilt, my mother was honoring her own mother. I realized, too, that I held in my hands a family treasure. It started with the loving hands of one woman, and continued with the loving hands of another.

【推荐2】The Christmas of 1988, my husband and I had four children. Peter was eleven, Leigh-Ann nine, Laura six and Matthew only two. When Santa arrived, Matthew parked himself on Santa’s lap and remained impressed greatly by him for the rest of the evening. Anyone who had their picture taken with Santa that Christmas also had their picture taken with little Matthew.

Little did any of us know how precious those photos with Santa and Matthew would become. Five days after Christmas, our sweet little Matthew died in an accident. When our first Christmas without Matthew approached, it was hard for us to get into the holiday spirit.

Then, on December 13, we were just finishing dinner when we heard a knock on the front door. When we went to answer it, no one was there. On the front porch was a card and gift. The gift-giver just wanted to help us get through a rough time by cheering us up with his or her name unknown, like a fairy.

In the gift bag was a cassette of favorite Christmas music, which was in a little cardboard Christmas tree. We put the cassette in our player and, song by song, the spirit of Christmas began to warm our hearts, and the thoughtfulness of our “fairy，touched our hearts.

That was the beginning of a series of gifts from the clever giver, one for each day until Christmas. Each gift followed the theme of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” in a creative way. The kids especially liked “seven swans a-swimming,” which was a basket of swan-shaped soaps plus passes to the local swimming pool. “Eight maids a-milking” included eight bottles of chocolate milk in glass bottles with paper faces. Every day was something very special.

The ingenuity and thoughtfulness shocked us as we enjoyed each surprise. We were so caught up in the excitement and curiosity of what would possibly come next, that our grief didn’t have much of a chance to rob us of the spirit of Christmas. What our fairy did was absolutely miraculous.

We give thanks for our fairy who was, we finally realized, our very own Christmas angel. We never did find out who it was, although we have our guess. We actually prefer to keep it that way.