It was unexpected. A classmate of John's-- by which I mean he had barely gotten used to writing "60" when filling out his age on paperwork-- has stage four cancer. The team of surgeons who sliced open his chest shook their capped heads and sutured him up again.

When calamity strikes most of us trace our connections to one another like a palm reader following lines. His wife was my childhood playmate. Our daughters lived in Alaska together. Our sons were roomies in Chicago.

The calendar is ticking. This couple is squeezing in as much laughter as will fit in a barrel full of days. Their neighborhood hosted a water gun extravaganza with a bulls eye on the guest of honor. They bought black mustaches for themselves and all of their friends.

All four of their kids will come home for Christmas.

One of the glaring changes that showed up when I addressed cards this week was the omissions. People who are gone. Some died gently, others with unquenchable grief.

The other day I asked a friend if she had time to go out for breakfast. She said she was pretty busy.

"How do you find the time?" she asked.

I pondered. What else is time for but the people we care about?