Excellent Things

René was the only man I ever kissed or loved, despite our 26-year age gap. We met when he was just 12, and by 1981, at 38, he was so touched by one of my demos that he mortgaged his house to fund my first album—long before my $500 million fortune. Our 21-year love story gave us three children and an unbreakable bond. Since his passing in January 2016 after fighting cancer, I’ve had no interest in new love. My heart remains his, fulfilled by our children, my fans, and my team. Each night, I imagine him beside me, and every performance carries his presence. I still feel married to René, and he’ll always be part of me.
—Céline Dion

While shopping with her kids at the closing Payless Shoe Store in Alma, Carrie Jernigan’s daughter asked if they could buy an extra pair of Avengers-themed shoes for a classmate whose shoes were too small. Jernigan gladly agreed to purchase the shoes for her daughter’s friend. On a whim, she asked the cashier how much it would cost to buy the store’s remaining inventory. The district manager later called with the price for about 1,500 boxes of shoes, and Jernigan seized the opportunity. Since that day in May, she and her family have been distributing the shoes to children in need in their community.
Credit: GOOD NEWS NETWORK

In spring 1945, as Ravensbrück concentration camp was liberated, snow lingered on the ground like a fading echo of winter. Among the freed, emaciated women stood Zofia Kowalska, a Polish schoolteacher from Kraków, her body frail under a worn, patched coat. When Red Army soldiers directed her to trucks bound for freedom, Zofia hesitated. She couldn’t leave yet.
In her barrack, she retrieved the coat from a nail by her bunk—a tattered garment held together by stitches. Embroidered across it were names: Helena, Marta, Lotte, Greta, Salomea… Each patch, sewn with thread scavenged from mattresses and scraps, bore the name of a friend. Every stitch held a memory of whispered prayers, shared grief, and unyielding courage.
In the camp’s final months, Zofia had vowed: If I survive, I’ll carry them with me. The coat was her testament, each name a life that had endured alongside her. When a liberation officer questioned her attachment to the ragged coat, Zofia whispered, “They can’t walk with me, but I can carry them.”
As she stepped past the gates, snowflakes fell on the embroidered names, blending with her tears. Ravensbrück was free, but Zofia carried its memory forward. Her coat now rests in a Warsaw museum, its fragile seams a powerful tribute—not carved in stone, but stitched by trembling hands in a place where humanity was meant to vanish, yet persisted.