A year ago I lost my wonderful friend and colleague Rachael Bland. She died at the age of just 40, two years after being diagnosed with breast cancer.

Her death knocked me for six. I knew it was coming and we had talked about it—but nothing prepared me for actually not having her in my life every day. The thing was, while we only knew each other for a short period of time, she had a huge impact on me. When I got diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer, I made a whole new group of friends. Rachael was up there with the best of them. She understood exactly what I was going through, she shared my fears and was always there at 3 am to reassure me. She was my rock.

After Rachael died, I had a nervous breakdown. I hit numerous brick walls in the weeks and months that followed. My cancer was progressing and I fell into a dark place. I pushed it away but ignored the terror of it all and inevitably it all came crashing down around me. Great Sorrow hit me when I least expected. Her death felt like a bad dream. The emotional bit aside, one of the things I found really hard was to actually accept she died.

Rachael hoped that by starting the conversation around cancer, she could help other women avoid getting cancer too. It was her absolute determination and bravery at helping to break down taboos (禁忌) that will live on for generations to come.

Rachael showed me how to live with cancer. Even in her darkest days she was determined to show that cancer didn’t get to take over. She helped remind me to get busy living with cancer rather than worry about dying of it. She was in the bottom of my heart forever.

Paul received a car from his brother as a Christmas present. On Christmas Eve when Paul came out of his office, a boy was walking around the shiny new car, admiring it.

“Is this your car, mister？” he said.

Paul nodded. “My brother gave it to me for Christmas.” The boy was astounded. “You mean your brother gave it to you and it didn't cost you anything? Oh, I wish…”He hesitated.

Of course Paul knew what he was going to wish for. He was going to wish he had a brother like that. But what the boy said shocked Paul all the way down to his heels.

“I wish.” the boy went on, “that I could be a brother like that.”

Paul looked at the boy in astonishment, and then impulsively （冲动地） he added, “Would you like to take a ride in my car?”

“Oh. yes, I'd love that.”

After a short ride, the boy turned to Paul and said. “Mister, would you mind driving to my house？”

Paul smiled a little. He thought he knew what the boy wanted. He waned to show his neighbours that he could ride home in a big car. But Paul was wrong again. “Will you stop where those two steps are?” the boy asked

He ran up the steps. In a little while he came back. carrying his little disabled brother. He sat him down on the bottom step. and pointed to the car.

“Buddy just like I told you upstairs. His brother gave it to him for Christmas and it didn't cost him a cent. And some day I'm going to give you one just like it... then you can see for yourself all the pretty things in the Christmas windows that I've been trying to tell you about.”

Paul got out and lifted the boy into the front seat of his car. The older brother climbed in beside him and the three of them began a memorable holiday ride. That Christmas Eve. Paul learned what Jesus meant when he said. “It is more blessed to give than to receive.”

I was in the fifth grade and had just moved to Westminster from London when I met Ms. May. Most of my teachers seemed to ignore me; I was one more student among hundreds. Ms. May, however, took a special interest. “You can write,” she said, explaining that she wanted to move me into the honors English class. So did I.

A decade later, when my first novel was published, I went back to Ms. May’s classroom, handing her a copy of my book. “And I wrote this for you.” Ms. May began to cry happily. She’d been considering early retirement, she said, because she felt she wasn’t having enough of an effect on her students. I didn’t know how to make Ms. May understand what she’d done for me: It was because of her that I fell in love with Shakespeare. I learned how to compose an essay. It was her belief in me that gave me the confidence to become a writer. Now I felt I owed her. I told her to forget her idea, and she did.

Fifteen years later, when I heard that she was finally ready to retire, I attended her going-away party. All Ms. May needed to do was say a few words thanking her colleagues for coming. Instead, she stood up and made an exciting speech that began like this, “Those of you are always complaining (抱怨) that kids have changed and that it’s harder to teach these days. You’re getting old and lazy. These kids haven’t changed. You have! Do not give up on these kids!”

When she finished her talk, everyone clapped hands! I went up to Ms. May and gave her a big hug. She smiled with tears rolling down her face. I came to realize that she would miss her teaching life.