One night, Bobby’s wife sent him to buy a gallon of milk. He went to the local variety store, took the milk from the cooler and waited in line.

When I was a boy, I thought I knew what being successful meant. It meant that you got good grades, looked good, had lots of friends and was a good athlete.

Harry was 55 years old. He’d experienced the death of his father, the suicide of a close friend, multiple job losses, and his mother’s failing health and confinement to a nursing home.

Two of Bob’s female coworkers were told to decorate the office and grounds for Christmas. It was a big task and would take several days. On the third day, one of them said, “I can’t believe I’m doing this! I didn’t sign up for this f*cking job!”