From the very beginning of Season 11, Idol judges Randy Jackson, Steven Tyler, and especially Jennifer Lopez lavished extraordinary praise on the 16-year-old pop singer from San Diego county. And veteran record-executive Jimmy Iovine, Idol coach to the fledgling stars, proclaimed months ago that he would sign Sanchez to a contract “right now, tonight.”

Certainly, the young chanteuse is preternaturally seasoned at the technical aspects of tackling pop anthems, and has immense vocal talents. But her song choices are rarely fresh or young or toe-tapping fun.

More important, Jessica Sanchez falls far behind five of the other six contestants (equally young Hollie is the exception) in expressing actual emotions while singing, or in connecting with the TV audience. In fact, the sweet, pretty songtress rarely peeks into the camera lenses at all. Shyness, perhaps?

Last night, TV viewers voted Jessica Sanchez, an America’s Got Talent contestant at age eleven, off the 7-person American Idol island. I wasn’t much surprised, and obviously, most of the TV audience felt likewise. She felt to me like the least likable, least appealing singer on the stage this week.

The judges were astonished, of course. Deeply astonished. That’s to be expected, given their blind devotion to Ms. Sanchez, to the exclusion of contestants savvier at touching viewer sentiments.

But what happened on last night’s elimination program was also astonishing in its arrogant disregard of voting viewers: Jessica didn’t have to follow program rules, as did all other eliminated contestants. The judges deemed her above the rules that govern the remainder of Idol wannabes.

In tears, young Jessica began to “sing for her survival,” when the judges, led by Lopez, stormed the stage, commenting that America was wrong, that it was “ridiculous” that she had been voted out. They felt it was beneath Jessica to have to sing for the “save.”

“Vote for Jessica,” Lopez repeatedly shrieked to the cameras. “She’s one of the best singers in America!” Randy and Steven nodded in agreement, as they all huddled around as if crowning the Chosen One, hugging, comforting and slavishly complimenting her.

Huh? What happened to mentoring and supporting all seven Idol hopefuls? What happened to respecting program viewers? What happened to objectivity? Do the judges really believe that uncritical slobbering over any young singer-in-progress is constructive? Helpful to Jessica?

I feel badly for Jessica Sanchez, who, in truth, was the big loser last night.

Of course, the judges should have saved her. But they should have done so with fairness and consideration for all seven contestants, and they should have done so with thoughtful objectivity.

Instead, Sanchez now carries the aura of the Chosen One, a heavy mantle that could damn her chances of prevailing at the top. Should Jessica Sanchez win America Idol Season 11, her victory will always be tainted with suspicions that the vote was fixed.

And the judges are apparently annoyed that America isn’t smart enough to agree with their choice.

Is this any way to treat an audience?

Think about it… The list of bypassed matinee idols with extraordinary acting chops reads like a litany of People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive list:

• George Clooney – three Best Actor nominations, no wins
• Brad Pitt – two nominations, no wins
• Johnny Depp – three nominations, no wins
• Leonardo DiCaprio – two nominations, no wins (and several shocking omissions from nominations)
• Tom Cruise – two nominations, no wins
• Matt Damon – one nomination, no win
• James Franco – one nomination, no win
• Ryan Gosling – one nomination, no win
• Viggo Mortensen – one nomination, no win
• Edward Norton – one nomination, no win

Since 2001, the Best Actor Oscar was awarded by the Academy to…

• Three thespians from Western European countries France, England, Ireland
• Three handsome African-American leading men: Denzel Washington, Jamie Foxx, Forest Whitaker
• Craggy, white character actors Philip Seymour Hoffman, Jeff Bridges, Adrien Brody, Sean Penn

Not one single solitary Best Actor Oscar in nearly 15 years to the biggest box-office draws worldwide: that deserving, super-talented gang of gorgeous, white, young-to-middle-aged, U.S.-born acting legends who sell millions upon millions of movie tickets annually.

Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences voters experience no such blocks to showering lavish admiration and Best Actress Oscars on beautiful, talented, sexy American leading women, including Sandra Bullock, Natalie Portman, Reese Witherspoon, Julia Roberts, Hilary Swank, and delectable doyenne Meryl Streep.

Odds are nearly impossible that collectively bypassing Clooney, Pitt, Depp, DiCaprio, Cruise and Damon for even one Best Actor Oscar between them is merely coincidence.

Is it, however, merely incidental to this gaping oversight that Academy voters today are 94 percent white, 77 percent male, and sport an average age of 62 years old, per a new, stunning Los Angeles Times report?

Interesting question, for sure… one that only voting Academy members can answer.

My personal guess is that the fraternity of white, male, senior-citizen Hollywood filmmakers is deeply, painfully envious of today’s debonair bunch of brilliant, maverick millionaire actors who also direct and produce. Envious, consciously or unconsciously.

I, for one, am tired of witnessing some of America’s very best actors and screen heroes denied their due because of the politics and peccadillos of a closed, segregated coven of jealous old white men.

I’m cheering for George and Brad, Leo and Johnny, Tom and Matt to all take home Best Actor Oscars over the next decade or so. Or for me, the Oscars will grow increasingly irrelevant and boring…

Not much, in my opinion. A tempest in an NFL teapot, and a dandy way for extremists to do what they do best: be extreme and a tad silly.

On the anti-religious extremist side are annoyed haters angry at Tebow’s frequent outbursts of religious fervor. Prime among that ugly ilk is a website, TebowHaters.com, that proudly spews stupidly disgusting bile about the smiling 24-year-old who was born in the Philippines to Baptist missionary parents.

Adding fuel to the raging Tebow fire, atheist comedian Bill Maher tactlessly tweeted after the Broncos lost to the Buffalo Bills, “Wow. Jesus just (expletive deleted) Tebow bad. And on Xmas Eve!”

Friends, haters act with hate. We know that. But like all Americans, haters have first amendments rights to freedom of speech in our great country. If they choose to define themselves through cruel and hate-laced words, why do you care? Ignore them. Tune them out. For your own mental health, let it go.

On the conservative-evangelical-or-bust side are Christian apologist extremists who reject the views of all who don’t pass their true-believer litmus tests. Commonly, true-believer hardliners demonize those who disagree with them, and idolize those who agree with them. And they simply can’t tolerate disagreement with their rigid beliefs.

Michael Medved, conservative Christian political commentator, lavishly illustrates in the Wall Street Journal laughably extremist idolatry of Mr. Tebow:

“… a remarkable athlete whose behavior on field and off exemplifies the values of hard work, fearlessness and concern for the downtrodden…

“So why should Tim Tebow draw more resentment than other religious athletes? In part, it stems from the fact that he’s too apparently flawless to evoke much sympathy from the uninitiated… most males look at Mr. Tebow and see a virtuous rebuke to our own limitations and imperfections.”

Idolizers and obsessive religious lionizers also have first amendments rights to freedom of speech in America, of course. Clearly, Tim Tebow is Michael Medved’s golden calf of the moment, as the football player is for thin-skinned others who especially revere Tebow’s public confessions of faith.

Again, who cares? Extremists are, well, extreme, whether their antics are hateful or downright dumb and nonsensical.

The reality about Tim Tebow is this: He’s joyful, grateful, cheerful and publicly singing the praises of his brand of religion. He’s also very young, and possibly not as mature as many 24-year-olds who’ve not focused the last 15 years of their lives on football.

Tim Tebow is an imperfect human being, a man with a feet of clay, just like the rest of us. In my view, he’s amply proved his imperfection in two mildly annoying ways:

• By continually using every possible public forum to gush about his passion for Jesus Christ. We get the message. You’re a strong Christian, and you love the Lord.

  I agree with tongue-in-cheek advice from the controversial Saturday Night Live skit: Take it down a notch, Tim. After all, remember Matthew 6:5: “And when you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by men. I tell you the truth, they have received their reward in full.”

• Conflating his joyous religious fervor, in TV commercials, with a powerful ultra-conservative political lobbying organization, Focus on the Family. Tebow flagrantly introduced politics into the discussion, not his critics. Tebow supporters shouldn’t whine because political opponents respond. It’s the way of American democracy and of American free speech.

So what’s a befuddled football aficionado to do if he detests being subjected to Tim Tebow’s frequent on-mike declarations of gratitude to Jesus Christ? Take a Doritos break. Grab another Corona. Turn off TV.

Or maybe watch. After all, Tim Tebow seems like a charismatic, watchable guy. “… a clean-living quarterback with deep commitments to charitable service” amid the NFL which unarguably is “generously stocked with forgiven felons, including millionaire wife beaters and dog killers,” in the words of Mr. Medved.

Lighten up! What’s not to like?

And they are, from the perspective of unworldly, uneducated folks such as the ebullient Lacks clan from Clover, Virginia whose “family still farmed the tobacco fields their ancestors had worked as slaves.”

Physicians and researchers at Johns Hopkins Hospital who treated young wife and mother Henrietta, from diagnosis in 1949 to death in 1951, for a uniquely aggressive cancer were certainly driven by normal concerns for patient care. Mrs. Lacks’ hearty specimens, taken during treatment, were the world’s first cells to reproduce (“culture”) under controlled laboratory conditions.

The physicians and researchers were also energized by scientific curiosity, though… the sort of creative curiosity that pushed the U.S. medical community to the mid 20th-century forefront of life-saving breakthroughs in genetics, gene therapies and cancer research. Intrigued in the 1950s and beyond by new scientific frontiers, medical professionals at famed research institutions as Johns Hopkins competed ferociously to author the latest medical innovations.

As a result of the hectic, heated race for medical research discoveries, the needs and rights of individual patients and their families were largely forgotten or accorded low priority. Commented a lab assistant assigned to Mrs. Lacks’ autopsy, “Oh jeez, she’s a real person… it hit me for the first time that those cells we’d been working with all this time and sending all over the world, they came from a live woman.”

The New York Times explains the legacy of Henrietta Lacks’ cells, which are known as HeLa in medical lingo:

“After Henrietta Lacks’s death, HeLa went viral, so to speak, becoming the godmother of virology and then biotech, benefiting practically anyone who’s ever taken a pill stronger than aspirin. Scientists have grown some 50 million metric tons of her cells, and you can get some for yourself simply by calling an 800 number.

“HeLa has helped build thousands of careers, not to mention more than 60,000 scientific studies, with nearly 10 more being published every day, revealing the secrets of everything from aging and cancer to mosquito mating and the cellular effects of working in sewers.”

The Lacks family received no compensation for their family member’s sacrifice or contribution to scientific advances. Nothing. And no one can confidently attest that Henrietta knowingly or willingly donated her cells for research.

This fascinating book recounts several other tales of brilliant but greedy physicians associated with top medical centers who reaped millions in the 1980s and later by developing and selling genetic cell lines based on tissues taken from unsuspecting patients. Doubtlessly, patients have been cheated of sharing in profits stemming from medical research, especially since the advent of Big Pharma (i.e. the powerful pharmaceutical industry and its lobbyists).

Yes, some medical research pioneers and innovators can be uncomfortably self-serving, callous and greedy in their pursuit of bona fide miracles… just as all-too-human pioneers in any field, from the discoverers and explorers of America to the discoverers and explorers of cyberspace were often self-serving, callous and personally greedy.

But we need their discoveries. Their innovations. The fruits of their wise labors. Their miracles that advance human progress and better the lives of men, women and children.

I think of family and friends we’ve lost to cancer, loved ones who might have been spared terrible struggles and despair:

• Prosie, 50-year-old wife and mother of two teenage boys, who didn’t grasp the severity of her rare hip joint cancer until too late
• Pete, my 36-year-old co-worker who was accurately diagnosed with pancreatic cancer only days before his death, leaving behind a bewildered young wife and 1-year-old son
• Meg, who triumphantly surpassed the five-year breast cancer survivor milestone, only to suffer mortal setback in year six
• Diana, my former mother-in-law, who suffered mightily with lung cancer

I think of Walter who resides now in hospice care, losing his battle against catastrophic brain cancer.

They and their families would have traded the sun, the moon, the whole world for a cure… a cure that could be found only from long-term medical research by intelligent, driven, highly educated and experienced professionals who sometimes fall prey to personal imperfections.

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot is a surprisingly interesting, poignant and artful interweaving of humanity, medicine, the medical community and poverty laced with dollops of American history.

While I strongly recommend this book, please be cautioned that a vital aspect of the entire story has been omitted: that of the immense good accomplished and human suffering alleviated by American medical research.

I’m awed by the clever, tender writing of the film “The Descendants,” especially the witty story’s return again and again to the subtle theme of forgiveness in imperfect action. Patient forgiveness, thoughtful forgiveness, reliable forgiveness. Funny forgiveness. Irrational forgiveness. Conflicted forgiveness. Shouted forgiveness. Excruciatingly painful forgiveness. But never self-righteous or condescending forgiveness.

As the emotionally-clueless workaholic father of two daughters, “The Descendants” star George Clooney replaces his trademark swagger and sexy “Oceans Eleven”-smirk with the raw vulnerability and humble authenticity of a family man slammed, but ultimately not crushed, by the fabric of life.

The genius of this film’s marvelous script is that it elicits side-splitting audience laughter amid tragic events, and finds bittersweet sadness amid delightful comedic moments.

The wonder of “The Descendants” writing is that it inspires film goers to witness the loving and hurting sides of profoundly flawed people. And to feel Clooney’s mannered shock-and-awe and hilarious immaturity as he flounders to “keep his head above water,” as his character jokes.

Films and books often cling stubbornly to our thoughts because in them, we see ourselves. As I look back, I’ve never fully forgiven certain people… a couple family members, a former long-time friend, ex-husband… who caused me heartache and considerable heartburn. This film reminds me that I could certainly make, or have made, a better effort to care about their travails.

An interesting, under-noted aspect of Clooney’s character in “The Descendants” is that while he tenderly forgives imperfect others, he never asks for forgiveness nor seems to grasp that he played a key role in causing pain in his own life or that of others. Thus, despite growing closer to his spirited daughters, the father remains just as flawed as anyone else in this enchanting, thoroughly modern story.

Set entirely in lush Hawaii, and scored with graceful Hawaiian melodies.

Rated R for language, spoken mainly (and quite approrpriately) by the older, teenage daughter.

About mid-round, the hardworking, well-liked employee took a solid fairway swing. With nary a word or sound, he then slumped to the warming ground, dead from an apparent heart attack. His mystified friends rushed to his side, but he was beyond medical help.

The mood was somber at the 200-person office on Monday, of course. Employees sadly mourned their colleague of 23 years. But they also made discreet, light-hearted comments…

• “What a way to go… Playing golf!”
• “Hope his last shot was a good one.”
• “That’s how I want to go: fast and playing golf. No suffering, except for my putting.”

I was offended at first when Ron told me about the post-death humor. Sort of. But then I wondered… is it always tasteless to joke out loud about death? Or does common decency ever permit us to distance ourselves from the fearful sting of death with laughter?

The deceased golfer died too young. By U.S. longevity statistics, he should have lived another 15 years. But a 63-year-old losing his life is not a terrible tragedy on the order of, say, a teenager succumbing to cancer, or a baby dying unexpectedly in her crib. The deceased enjoyed six decades of precious life, and was blessed with a wife, children, grandchildren and material comforts. He had his turn, albeit one cut a bit too short. But he was not cheated of life’s bounty.

His sudden death certainly feels like a tragedy to his family, especially to his physically disabled wife. Joking about their newly deceased loved one would be cruelly painful. And completely unpalatable and unacceptable.

But does squeamishness with death humor reflect humane decency on my part… or does it reflect undue personal discomfort with the subject of death? Out of fear, am I over-solemnizing that which is the natural culmination of life and part of God’s plan?

I don’t have answers and would love to hear your thoughts on the subject.

I do know, though, that as I grow ever closer to the age of the deceased golfer, the specter of death seems less like an distantly abstract concept, and more like not-so-distant reality rearing its dreaded head.

Employees lightly jesting about the golfer’s death feels wrongly disrespectful to me. But this feeling may be more about my shortcomings than theirs.

And, if I’m being completely honest, their clever remarks were kind of funny…

Describes the Christian Science Monitor of the edgy-cute doll that was newly released for sale on October 13, 2011:

“The Tokidoki Barbie doll, created by Italian designer Simone Legno, sports a short pink bob, permanent Barbie doll tattoos covering her neck, chest, and shoulders, leopard print tights, and a black tunic top etched with Tokidoki’s heart-shaped skull and crossbones logo. She comes complete with sunglasses, a purse, and a little dog dressed as a cactus who goes by ‘Bastardino.’”

The parents, it seems, are riled up over the tattoos. “I don’t think it’s appropriate for little girls to be having Barbies with tattoos all over,” parent Reye Griffith told New York City station WCBS.

“‘It’s teaching kids to want tattoos before they are old enough to dress like that,’ Kevin Buckner, of Virginia, told a local television station,” per Reuters.

“Little girls will feel like they won’t be complete until they have pink hair and tattoos,” commented college sophomore Sarah Loftus to the University of Florida newspaper.

Never mind, apparently, that nothing about Mattel’s curvaceous Barbie is physically realistic or provides a fair or remotely achievable role model for pre-adolescent girls.

Never mind that, if Barbie was 5’9″, her proportional measurements would doom her with a 39″ bust, an 18″ waist, 33″ hips and a size 3 shoe. Reports CBS News:

“… when Galia Slayen, a Hamilton College student who once battled an eating disorder, tried to make an actual life-size Barbie, she was shocked at the result – a freakish woman with pencil-thin legs, breasts that threatened to topple her over, and a body mass index (BMI) that would put her squarely in the anorexia camp.”

Never mind that Barbie sports the makeup of a Nevada hooker… that she’s clothed in a fantasy wardrobe of couture ball gowns, skimpy beach wear, or cartoonish “career” frocks… that she’s accessorized with permanent spiky heels.

Barbie has far more in common with the slutty Britney Spears-like Bratz dolls (145 million sold!) than with Mattel’s upscale, politically-correct, parent-pleasing American Girl Collection.

A parent studying Barbie and finding fault mainly with the doll’s hair color and body art, most of which is hidden under her skullbones tunic, is a bit like complaining that deck-top musicians were playing off-key while the Titanic sank to the Atlantic Ocean’s dark, frigid depths.

Frankly, I think the pretty-in-pink hair and perfectly color-coordinated body art may be the least offensive features of Tattoo Barbie.

(Believe it or not, trendy Tattoo Barbie is hotly sought for holiday shopping. The initial first-edition 7,400 dolls sold out in days. Tattoo Barbie can be found at eBay and many toy stores, and can still be bought here at Amazon, Barbie Collector – Tokidoki Barbie Doll – Gold Label, at outrageous prices ranging from $599 to more than $800.

Seriously… The price might be the most offensive feature of Tattoo Barbie!)

Working and happily chattering with beloved friends. Savoring an hour of rejuvenation at the local beauty salon. Calling a friend before bounding out of a car.

Enjoying small pleasures one moment. Dead the next moment, murdered by an enraged, heavily-armed madman.

I could visualize this violent collision between everyday life and savage insanity. I could feel the raw horror… Each time my wearied eyes shut, defensive adrenaline freshly riddled my pulsing blood, and I startled again.

I pray for peace for their unimaginably anguished families. I pray for peace for the souls of the eight departed victims. I even pray for the depraved madman. Again, I pray to understand the mind and heart of God.

And I wonder why this country, alone among all first-world, industrialized, civilized nations, allows unfettered access to weapons of violence, murder, mayhem and destruction. And illogically calls that “freedom.”

I’m turning a milestone age next month, a number I practice admitting aloud only to family. To everyone else, I refer to my soon-to-be-age as a “number I can’t believe…” Like I unintentionally did for the last three new-decade ages, I’m indulging in wistful navel-gazing. And wondering when exactly I became an age when teenagers consider a late middle-ager decrepit and close to death’s doorstep.

I had a party at a marvelous Los Angeles restaurant (now closed) to celebrate my 30th birthday. I burst into tears and sobbed in my longtime doctor’s office on my 40th birthday. (He looked bewildered… tried to list all the “cool” things about being 40.) And tended to my three-month-old baby. I cried, ruminated, then bought a pricey new purse to celebrate my 50th birthday.

What astonishes me most about aging isn’t the random mystery aches and pains, or even that inside, I still feel like what I think is a terrific age for women: 35.

What catches me most by surprise about turning this “number I can’t believe…” are telltale pop-culture signs that hilariously point to us as part of the baby boomer old-folks crowd. Here are a few laughable examples…

• We turned on Wii during a recent weekend evening to maybe play a game. We use Wii to watch old movies and Mad Men reruns on NetFlix, and to entertain our two grandkids. We hit a techno wall: couldn’t easily figure out Wii games without the assistance of our six-year-old granddaughter… so we turned it off.

  

• This year, we bought our first new car in a decade. Past new cars included several sporty Jeep Grand Cherokees. Before we married, we both drove semi-sleek singles cars… a Honda and a BMW. In 2011, we selected a sensible, four-door Hyundai Sonata sedan, and feel fabulous about its comfort, reliability, XM radio, and fuel efficiency.

• We sometimes order off senior menus at restaurants: the smaller entrees suit our diminishing appetites, and the lower prices suit our diminishing budget. (Ron boasts about ordering from senior menus. It embarrasses me slightly… )

• We doodle at sudoku and crossword puzzles while watching weeknight TV. Anything to keep our memories from diminishing like our appetites and wallets.

• We find appealing articles in AARP publications: travel, cooking, good deals, smart financial advice, and lots of baby boomer celebrities. (“How Bob Dylan Helped Me Grow Up” by Bono, “Crazy in Love: The Tortured Longing and Red-Hot Triumph of Vince Gill and Amy Grant,” “Jane Lynch is Gleeful about Her New Life.”)

• Last Saturday night, we finally admitted that we prefer to watch a movie on our 46-inch flat screen, while nestled on the couch and munching homemade kettle corn, rather than contending with busy parking lots, long lines, joyously rowdy teenagers, and over-priced snacks at the local movie theater. (Now, that’s old… )

Aging is not for wimps or tiresome whiners. Aging is suited for people who can laugh and love… laughing with life, and loving themselves as they are: gloriously alive and blessed.

So as I mark the beginning of a new decade, I’m determined to laugh, not cry. To appreciate, not ruminate. To give grateful thanks.

If that doesn’t work, I’m thinking jewelry might do the trick.

To list all my blessings is impossible: the list must be near infinite. But on this day set aside for gratitude, I can’t resist musing on blessings lately foremost on my mind and active in my life…

I’m grateful to be married to Ron. He’s an understanding, open-minded, kind-hearted man; he understands and loves me and our family; he’s a hardworking person who takes pride in providing for our family. We have fun together and share innumerable interests. (We never tire of each other’s company on long road trips… Seriously!) The best years of my life began in my late 30s when we married.

I’m grateful for our four children and one spouse. They’re a superb lot of interesting, caring individuals and responsible citizens, and we feel fortunate to have good relationships with all of them. Time spent with them is precious to us. Always. Of course, our two young grandchildren are joys. What a privilege to glimpse the future through the eyes of our progeny.

I’m grateful that three of our parents remain alive and semi-healthy for folks in their 80s. It’s a deep, unexpected comfort to still call my mother weekly, and hear her calming words that put into perspective life’s ups and downs. Despite our occasional frustrations, I honestly feel blessed at getting to better know Ron’s father in the five years since his mother passed on. Dad White is an intelligent, funny, generous person who daily struggles alone with the challenges of old age.

On more mundane matters:

• I’m grateful for online outlets for writing, since my writing skills are light-years more effective than my speaking skills. Writing and cooking are my two gifts, and my two avenues of creativity and expression. Besides, I earn a living (and a small bit of useful notability) via online writing. What’s not to absolutely adore about working in my crummiest, comfy clothes, sans make-up and shoes?

  

• I’m grateful to have found a church home, Messiah Lutheran Church, at which the pastors deliver terrific messages week after week, every week. They get it exactly right, even if the message is often more challenging than comfortable. Ron and I admire this church home that loves people and the world, and every single week, translates that love into bold action and active caring.

• I’m crazy grateful to have discovered Abundant Harvest, which delivers gorgeous produce weekly for an astonishing low price. (No, I’m not on their payroll… ) Now, rather than chips and cookies, the extra food sitting around our home is freshly-picked apples, grapes of all colors, carrots, pears, oranges, bell peppers, lettuce, cantaloupes, squash, and more.

  We actually savor it, believe it or not. I’ve discovered and created all sorts of new recipes. And Ron and I are losing weight without trying. Maybe it’s the farmer in my genes… all four of my grandparents were Central Valley farmers and ranchers… but each week’s delivery feels like a glorious, marvelous bounty.

• I’m grateful for some things that annoy a few others: political leadership that cares about people over profits; Yale University for its extraordinary generosity in supporting Andrea’s education and aspirations; environmentalism, which means caring for God’s creation.

Above all, I am grateful for a gracious God who has blessed me beyond reason and measure.

What are you grateful for on this World Gratitude Day?