I had not hugged a friend or a family member for more than two years until recently when my sister flew in for a brief visit. For safety, we met outside. Despite the wintry weather, her hug warmed me from the inside out. It’s strange, but only now do I truly realize how much I’ve missed embracing loved ones.

I grew up through war in my hometown of Sarajevo, Bosnia, and every moment was full of danger. On one peaceful morning, I had begged my mom to let me go outside after spending weeks indoors. She finally agreed. I was outside for only 10 minutes when I was caught in an explosion. I ran to my neighbor’s house for safety and hung my arms around her neck just as my legs collapsed underneath me.

Thankfully, I made a full physical recovery, but the emotional scars never left me. Years later there was another explosion near my house. I was safely inside, but my father had left to buy a loaf of bread. He had only just missed the explosion. When he came back inside, I gave him the biggest hug imaginable. I was caked in tears as I held him tight.

That same night my parents managed to arrange my escape from our war-torn city. I was 16 and came to America on my own. A generous host family took me in. They had a large dog called Oscar. Over the next several months, I secretly struggled with feeling homesick and worried about my family back home. Despite managing quite well at school, I couldn’t express my feelings. The only way I shared how I felt was by giving Oscar a big hug.

It is yet another sad aspect of our pandemic(疾病大流行的) lives that hugging a stranger is the last thing on our minds. For many of us, even hugging a relative or a friend comes with stress and anxiety over risks and precautions. As I look back on my past, I count myself truly lucky to have been held, shielded and encouraged at some of the most key moments of my life by the power of a hug.

A few days ago, my husband, Russ, and I lost our house of 28 years to a California wild fire.

On that night, we had to leave our house and sleep in the back seat of our Ford. The next morning, we had to drive three and a half hours to find a hotel that had a room available. Only later, in the local newspaper, did we see photographs of the destruction. Our house had been consumed by the fire along with most of our neighborhood.

“How are we going to rebuild our house after this?” I thought, rounding a corner on the sidewalk on my walk back to the hotel. “Is it even possible?”

I noticed something up ahead—a pair of nickels, shining like precious jewels. They were just nickels, but they somehow felt special. I bent down and picked them up. If these were lucky coins, I could use all the luck I could get.

A few days later, I made a trip to the store to buy essentials. The enormous task of replacing everything we’d lost put a heavy weight on me. I was about to leave when I felt the urge to stop and turn my head to the right. I could hardly believe it—there on a shelf, was a nickel! “Okay, maybe this is more than luck,” I thought and put the nickel in my pocket.

I told myself that I had found the nickels just by chance. Then I found one next to my plate at a restaurant—on Thanksgiving, when I was missing our house more than ever. It seemed that a nickel appeared whenever my spirits sank.

Whenever I reached my breaking point, I’d find another nickel. In the grass at the park, or near the tire of my car in a parking lot. Once, my change for a quick lunch was given entirely in nickels. “I’m sorry,” the cashier said. “It’s all we have.” “It’s all I need!” I said.

One day, I was sitting at the desk when my phone rang. It was a real-estate agent I’d been working with. “I have a new listing,” she said. “When can we see it?”

A few hours later, Russ and I were following the agent down the driveway toward the house. I didn’t think long. Because there, in the driveway...

I didn’t expect parenting a teenager to be this hard. Lately, my son and I conflict at every corner. About schoolwork. His attitude. Friends. Screen time. On and on. Everything I say is met with an eye roll or a mumbled “whatever”. My fuse is admittedly shorter than normal right now, due to some unrelated anxiety, illness, and lack of sleep.

On a recent drive home, after picking up my teen and his little brother from school, we stopped by a grocery. As soon as the food was loaded, my older child snatched a box of individually wrapped cakes, which I seldom allowed As he oohed and aahed, enjoying sweet cakes, I silently questioned my decision to spoil him this way. But before we’d even exited the parking lot, he asked me to pull over. And then my son surprised me: He asked if he could share a few of his treasured treats with a homeless man, standing outside the door, coatless.

Of course, I agreed.

Actually, I kicked myself. This was a gesture I hadn’t even considered in a hurry to get home, even though my car was packed with food. Without hesitation, my teenage son handed the stranger a few little cakes. The man thanked us, and we continued on our way.

Throughout our journey home, we frankly discussed how difficult it must be for people experiencing homelessness. It was a rare conversation. No push and pull or negotiations. Simply a time to reflect and take stock of how much we have to be thankful for.

When we eventually turned into our garage, that same teenager — expressing concern for my recent illness — announced, “You’re not unloading any of these bags. We got this, Mom.”

Yes, parenting a ten is harder than I expected. But it’s also sweeter: And, in that moment, you realize you’ve actually raised a pretty awesome human being.