Six Sand Dollars

A Saturday morning invitation to notice what matters most.

July 4, 2026

Story

Happy 4th of July!

Some of my favorite Fourth of July memories have nothing to do with fireworks.

They have everything to do with the people standing beside me while we watched them.

Years ago, I flew to Lake Tahoe to spend the holiday with my sister and her growing family. My mom was there. My stepdad, Joe. Eddie. My nieces and nephews. My grandmother—my Vó Gessi, as we say in Portuguese. We all gathered at a local park as the sun began to set, waiting for darkness to give way to the first burst of color across the sky.

I have a photograph somewhere from that night.

It's one of my favorites.

Just my grandmother and me.

I have to find it.

Of course, if this were a recent photo, I'd simply type "Grandma" into my phone and there it would be, thanks to facial recognition and thousands of neatly organized digital memories.

Not this one.

This one requires a trip to the old shoeboxes filled with photographs that haven't seen the light of day in years.

Ah...the memories.

Maybe I'll find the photograph.

Or maybe I'll just find a hundred memories I wasn't looking for.

My grandma has been gone for years now, but every Fourth of July I seem to think about that evening. Maybe it's because holidays have a way of reminding us not only of who is with us, but also of who isn't.

Families change.

Children grow up.

Parents move.

Grandparents leave us.

Life has a funny way of scattering the people we love across the map.

This year feels different.

A few weeks ago, my mom moved to Texas. My sister is still in Nevada. Lee’s sister, Marcia, is in New Hampshire. We have family in Pennsylvania, Oklahoma, New Jersey, and beyond. It makes me realize that gathering everyone in one place isn't nearly as simple as it used to be.

And maybe that's why something happened a few days ago that has stayed with me.

Lee and I escaped the heat and headed to our favorite place in Holgate, at the southern end of Long Beach Island. It's our ritual. We load our backpacks, hop on our bikes, and ride to the beach.

It was one of those perfect summer afternoons. The beach was scattered with families, the ocean breeze made it fifteen degrees cooler than the mainland, and after sitting by the water for a while, we took our usual walk through the wildlife preserve.

My mom always loved looking for sand dollars.

Every time we came to the beach together, she'd keep her eyes fixed on the shoreline, hoping to find one.

As we walked, I quietly made a little deal with myself.

If we find one sand dollar today, I'm going to take it as a sign.

A sign that somehow, someday, this family of ours will all be together again.

Not just for a holiday.

Not just for a weekend.

Together.

Then something remarkable happened.

We didn't find one.

We found six!

Lee found three.

I found three.

And suddenly I couldn't stop smiling.

Maybe it was coincidence.

Or maybe sometimes we simply choose to see hope when it washes up at our feet.

Reflection

Today, America celebrates 250 years.

That's something worth celebrating.

Not because our country has always been perfect—it hasn't—but because generation after generation has continued believing that home is worth building, protecting, and passing on.

Maybe that's what I love most about the Fourth of July.

Yes, it's the fireworks.

Yes, it's the flags.

Yes, it's the cookouts and parades.

But beneath all of that is something much quieter.

It's family.

It's belonging.

It's remembering where we come from while making room for where life takes us next.

As the years pass, our definitions of home begin to expand. Home becomes less about one address and more about the people whose presence makes every place feel familiar.

Maybe that's why I held those six sand dollars so tightly.

They reminded me that even though life scatters us across states and time zones, love still has a way of pulling us back toward one another.

Sometimes we just need to decide to make it happen.

Question

So this week's reflection comes with a little challenge.

Call the people you've been meaning to call.

Start planning the reunion you've been talking about for years.

Choose a date.

Send the text.

Buy the plane ticket.

Life moves far too quickly to keep saying, "Someday."

As the fireworks light up the sky tonight, I'll be thinking about my Vó Gessi, my mom and family in Texas, my sister in Nevada, my cousins in Pennsylvania and Oklahoma, and everyone else I love who calls another place home.

And I'll be thinking about six sand dollars resting on our kitchen counter.

Six little reminders that hope sometimes arrives in the most ordinary places.

Now it's our turn.

Let's make it happen, family!

Happy Fourth of July! 🇺🇲

Until next Saturday, choose presence.