I don’t believe in luck.
Except when I do.
Most days, I believe you make your own luck. You get up early. You sit down with the checklist. You do the work.
You reap what you sow.
You get what you deserve.
You read the newspapers and learn that a bomb hit a house in Afghanistan. A truck rolled over after skidding on black ice on a Midwestern highway. Your neighbor’s cleaning lady won the lottery.
You made it to the other side of this bright, shiny day, with all your loved ones still breathing, with your roof intact, with money in your bank account, and food in your belly. You held a warm hand in yours, heard your daughter laugh until she almost couldn’t breathe, saw two wood ducks in your apple tree.
You woke up this morning and put your feet on the cold floor, stood, and started another day.
What did I do to deserve that?
I hedge my bets. Pick up that found penny. Make a wish on a falling star. Say “Rabbit, Rabbit” on the first day of the month.
Let this be a lucky one.