“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”

That well-known proverb is attributed to Lao Tzu.

With 2025 behind us, I’ve been noodling over the only goal I set last year. To walk at least 1,000 miles.

I ended up at 1,026, and it’s much more modest than it sounds. It’s just under 4 miles a day on the days I actually walked.

For years I’ve walked regularly — loops near my home, routes around hotels while traveling, hiking trails when time and weather allowed. But this year was different.

For the first time, I set a specific goal and tracked it to the hundredth of a mile. I asked Oakli, my spreadsheet genius of a child, to create something that logged dates, miles, averages, yearly pace, and location.

Each day had a line. Each mile mattered. Progress was visible.

Accountability built in.

On paper, it looked impressive.

In practice, on the days I actually walked, it came out to just under four miles. Hardly a superhuman feat. Many of you probably power walk that before brunch.

Still, as I look at my final stats, I’m realizing something unexpected. The numbers interest me far less than the people attached to them.

After all, what good does it do to walk 1,000 miles if all you’re doing is walking past people?

Some of the most meaningful moments of my year didn’t happen at the end of a route, but in the pauses along the way.

There were people I met while traveling — near hotels in unfamiliar cities — some who ended up receiving Kindness Cards and, more importantly, conversation.

Those walks rarely stayed on schedule. Stories slowed them down. Names replaced numbers. The spreadsheet never captured that.

I met Gary in Salt Lake City. We talked on the sidewalk and he spoke of his exhaustion from living on the streets — not just physical fatigue, but the weariness that comes from being judged by people who pass by without seeing you. That loop stays vivid in my memory, not because of its distance, but because it forces me to confront how often I move too quickly through other people’s lives.

I met a hitchhiking nomad named Bonnie (pictured) in Virginia. Our conversation changed and challenged me. A chat on the sidewalk led to a ride to a community in North Carolina where she knew she’d find support. She spoke with quiet clarity about what it means to truly set aside the world to follow Jesus—not symbolically, but practically. Her words stayed with me long after the walk ended, and I realized that growth doesn’t always come from effort or endurance. Sometimes it comes from listening.

I often crossed paths with Sharon and Pat, a wonderful couple who probably walked closer to 5,000 miles. We stopped many times to chat about family, faith, and current events. They surely don’t know this, but there were cold, hot, or hazy days when I walked because I’d already seen them out and about. Their excellent examples inspired me, and not just how often or how far they walked.

Yet none of that appears in the data.

As I scroll through that spreadsheet today, what makes me smile is not the total at the bottom. It’s that so many of those loops have faces attached to them. Conversations. Lessons. Moments of shared humanity.

And if I’m being honest, I also feel a quiet ache for the people I didn’t stop for — the ones whose names I never learned, whose stories I didn’t hear, whose lives I hurried past in the name of miles, schedules, or simple distraction. That realization leaves me with a resolve, not a regret: to slow down more often, to notice sooner, and to do better.

Now as I’m setting my goals for the year ahead, I find myself asking a different kind of question. Will my next goal be miles-based—or smiles-based?

I’m still going to walk. Still going to track it, because there’s value in showing up consistently. But I’m making one simple change: I’m leaving the headphones at home more often. No podcasts to finish, no audiobooks to race through. Just the sound of footsteps and the possibility of conversation.

And I’m building in margins — extra time before flights, longer routes with benches, deliberate detours past the places where people gather. The spreadsheet can wait. The stories can’t.

Because if Lao Tzu were still with us (he’d only be 2,596 years old), perhaps he’d add an addendum. “A journey of a thousand miles doesn’t begin with a single step at all—it begins with the first face you’re willing to see.”

And that may be the most important lesson my miles taught me in 2025.

Here’s to 2026. If you see me on the roads, trails, or a treadmill, please say “hello!”

Maybe you’ll be in next year’s wrap-up.

I had the privilege of meeting Jeffrey R. Holland several times, including as John the Shepherd when he attended our “Joy to the World” Christmas show in December of 2024.

As we chatted, I reminded him of a piece I’d written years earlier about his unique experience digging a grave in Nevada for a grieving family. Unsurprisingly, Holland remembered the experience, the family, and the article.

This great man and faithful church leader passed away on December 27, 2025, and I wish I could be there to help reverently prepare his final resting place, the way he did for that family decades ago in the desert.

I suspect many people reading this will feel the same. In fact, there aren’t enough shovels on earth for everyone who might want the honor of serving him.

I would say “rest in peace,” but something tells me he’ll find plenty of reasons to stay busy on the other side. People in need of ministering and love.

Prayers for his family, friends, and colleagues. He will be deeply missed.

Here’s the original piece I wrote, unedited to reflect his passing.

---

The Day Jeffrey R. Holland Helped Dig a Grave for a Young Missionary

Originally published October 2, 2016

---

Elder Jeffrey R. Holland is known for his talks and the powerful principles and crisp, undeniable doctrine.

But for residents in and around Hiko, Nevada, nothing Elder Holland says inside the Conference Center could have a greater impact than what they witnessed nearly 20 years ago. It’s a story they recall often, like a sacred memento you would never hide in a box.

The experience begins in an apartment building in Russia.

Where does it end? In a rocky grave in Nevada.

On Saturday, October 17, 1998, Elder Jose Mackintosh, 20, of Hiko and his companion, Elder Bradley Borden, also 20, of Mesa, Arizona, were violently attacked while leaving an evening appointment in Ufa, Russia. The stabbings seriously injured 20-year-old Elder Borden and he was sent to recover at a hospital in Germany.

Elder Mackintosh died at the scene.

Word traveled fast to Hiko and surrounding areas, by Sunday afternoon, a joint sacrament service was scheduled between the two local wards and Elder Holland was assigned to visit, preside, and give comfort.

One week later, Elder Holland was back for the funeral.

Just 12 hours before Elder Mackintosh would be eulogized and laid to rest, friends gathered at Schofield Cemetery in nearby Alamo to finish digging the grave. The ground had proved too tough for the backhoe to finish the job and much of the work needed to be completed with shovels, steel bars, and pickaxes.

As evening fell, a car entered the cemetery and rolled to a quiet stop. A man stepped out by himself and took off his suit coat. His white shirt and tie drew a memorable contrast with the dusty Nevada dusk.

“May I help?” the man asked, and the crew was speechless. The volunteer was Elder Holland.

As he hopped into the deep grave he asked, “Could anyone lend me a shovel?” Then, with heavy hearts and with dirt and grief on their faces, they dug.

Cortney Dahl, a local priesthood leader and close friend of the Mackintosh family, recalled in an interview this week that it’s as if the scene occurred yesterday and not two decades ago.

“I remember how shiny his shoes were standing in the grave and the reflection of the shovel. How his sleeves were rolled up. How he sweated like the rest of us.”

Elder Holland, with seemingly ninety and nine reasons to leave early, stayed for the one until the work was done.

The funeral was a standing-room-only affair. Dahl recounts people sitting all the way back on the stage in the cultural hall and still others standing on the edges. Elder Holland and Elder Mackintosh’s family spoke fondly about the marvelous missionary who’d dreamt of serving in Russia since childhood.

After the service, and with the longest funeral procession Dahl has ever seen, Elder Holland returned to the grave he’d help dig. When the dedication and burial were complete, Elder Holland stayed and shook the hand of every single guest.

Later, Dahl learned that Elder Holland had driven his own car both times so he’d have the flexibility to stay as long as necessary. “I can still feel the brotherly love that he sincerely felt for each of us as he participated in that Christ-like service. There wasn’t a doubt among us that he was a chosen servant and personal witness for Jesus Christ.”

Dahl still ponders how embarrassed this Apostle of the Lord seemed by all the attention. “He knew the weekend wasn’t about him; it was about Jose and his family, but he also knew he had a responsibility to mourn with those who mourned.”

This weekend, witnesses to that special week in Nevada, will smile when Elder Jeffrey R. Holland steps to the pulpit to address a global audience.

Millions will see him in a clean dark suit with bright eyes and a beautiful tie.

But a small band of brothers will see him differently. In their minds, this disciple’s sleeves are rolled up, the sun is setting on his face, and he’s literally up to his chest in dirt and service.

Whatever Elder Holland teaches will be powerful and poignant. But for Dahl and all those who lived through another October weekend, they already know the most important lessons and examples don’t always come from a pulpit.

Meet Emma—she’s the heartbeat of the most important Christmas Jar story I’ve ever shared.

If you’ve followed the tradition, you know that it began in 2004 when the Wright gang gave away the first jar.

We lived in Northern Virginia, and we chose a family from our church.

The truth is, this was really just an experiment—we didn’t even call it a Christmas Jar back then.

But delivering that very first jar on Christmas Eve has become one of our family’s most treasured memories.

We loved that fabulous family, and we’ve always considered them the original, true pioneers of the movement.

In the days and weeks after the delivery, I began writing a short story that became Christmas Jars: The Novella. I even named a couple of the characters in the book after their family members.

Obviously, we had no idea where it would all lead. And when the book was picked up by a publisher in 2005, we simply smiled when the jar family pointed out the coincidence that the “Christmas Jars guy” lived one neighborhood over and went to their church.

The book was the surprise hit of 2005 no one expected—not the publisher, not the Wrights, not retailers. But readers like you (yes, you—the one reading this post) embraced the book and tradition in wonderful ways.

In the 20 years since, thousands of jars have been given away across the country. My own family has given away at least one jar every single year since that first delivery.

And honestly? I’ve told the story of that first family hundreds of times—at book signings, in interviews, at workshops. Always in past tense. Always as a treasured memory.

I never expected the story to become present tense again.

But 2025—the 20-year anniversary of the book—is where things take a miraculous turn.

Two weeks ago, I was asked to speak at a forum at Southern Virginia University. I’ve been teaching a writing workshop there for a couple of years, and the invite was truly an honor.

It was billed as their annual Christmas devotional, and I was told to celebrate Christmas Jars by sharing inspiring stories and lessons learned.

I knew without a doubt that, of the countless stories I’ve lived or received, I’d tell the story of the jar and the family that started it all.

About a week before the devotional, I received a message on social media from Nancy, the mother of that family. Long ago, they moved to the other side of the country, and while we’ve followed each other online, we haven’t been in the same room in many years.

Her message told me that her granddaughter Emma is a student at SVU and that if I ever saw her on campus, I should give her a hug from her grandmother. “Just tell her she’s loved,” she said.

Nancy probably could have seen my smile from space.

I told her I’d never met her or even heard her name mentioned in class, but that might soon change. “You won’t believe this,” I wrote back. “But I am speaking at their forum this week! And I just might be sharing a very special Christmas Jars story.”

Fast forward—I am on stage, looking out at the student body, wondering

if she’s there. Wondering if she even knows her family’s unique connection to the Christmas Jars tradition.

Fighting back tears, I said these words: “For the first time in 20 years, having told this story more times than I can remember, there is someone in the audience with a personal relationship to this story and that jar. A granddaughter of that family is in this very room right now.”

You could have heard a pine needle drop from a tree. The silence was sacred and beautiful.

I shared a few small details about the family. No names, but some facts that might have been a flag for Emma.

After my remarks, I waited to see if someone would approach. I knew her name, of course, but I didn’t want to call her out. The choice needed to be hers.

Here’s the real plot twist.

After the forum each week, President Bonnie Cordon and her husband host a luncheon at the president’s home for the speaker and a handful of randomly selected students. It’s a chance for them to ask questions, eat a lovely meal, and connect with the Cordons in a special way. It’s a true honor to be invited.

You already know where this is going, right?

I walked around the table, shook hands—and there she was.

Emma was seated at the large table with a name card in front of her plate.

Over the next 45 minutes, we ate lunch, and students took turns sharing favorite Christmas memories and traditions. When it was my turn, I dropped a few more hints about that original jar family and the circumstances of their lives at the time, but still Emma didn’t blink.

Just before we stood from the table, I asked if I could pose one more question of the group. “So, before we go, I have a final question.” I looked around the table at the eight students and the Cordons, then quickly scanned past Emma, careful not to give anything away too soon.

“If I told you that the student I mentioned earlier was sitting at this table, would you want to know who?”

Eyes darted around at one another, and I finally looked at Emma.

“I think it’s me,” she whispered.

“I know,” I said. “It is you.”

We then connected the dots on her family history, and she was overwhelmed with the knowledge that her family didn’t just receive a Christmas Jar—they received the Christmas Jar.

The one that started it all.

A few hours later, Emma came to my book signing, and I was honored to sign a book to the only Christmas Jars family older than the book itself.

There are some additional personal details around this miraculous intersection of our lives that are not appropriate to share on social media.

But I assure you that in a million ways, this was meant to be. We needed to meet Emma in that way, at that time, for so many reasons.

We were supposed to deliver that message from her grandmother.

“Emma, you are loved.”

We gave hugs. We gave gratitude.

We never anticipated admitting that we were the ones who gave her family that first jar two decades ago.

But when God creates miraculous moments, His will is done.

Everyone in the room recognized heaven’s hand in putting us in that devotional together—and, more importantly, around the same table.

It is my personal witness that God is deeply in the details of our lives.

What’s important to us is important to Him.

Choosing a favorite Christmas Jars story has always been so challenging.

Impossible, really.

But not anymore.

This story. This family. This young lady.

Emma, you are loved.

If you’ve ever been forced to sit next to me on a plane, you know that if you’re game to chat, so am I. Over the years, I’ve made friendships at 30,000 feet that have long outlasted most frequent flyer programs.

Recently I found myself on a flight celebrating what brings every road warrior exquisite, unbridled joy — an empty middle seat.

Before the seat belt sign was off, my rowmate and I were chatting about our travel, work, and the holidays. Neither of us was looking for a debate or a deep dive into world affairs, but eventually our discussion landed on the topic we all pretend we’re not thinking about — the way politics has quietly, and sometimes loudly, redrawn the lines in our families and friendships.

My new friend shared how some of her most cherished relationships had fractured during the last year over politics. Cousins, coworkers and college roommates have drawn thick lines in the political beachhead.

Together we shared several anecdotes, careful not to betray trust or privacy. It was a tragic inventory of relationships diseased by disputes.

Some voted for the winner, others did not. Some voted out of conviction. Others voted while holding their proverbial noses. Many simply stayed home. As the beverage cart made its stop, we agreed that we both had friends and family in every imaginable category.

Yes, friends and family.

We weren’t discussing burned bridges between strangers debating outside polling places or on Reddit. These weren’t casual acquaintances or the kind of people you only see on social media once a year when the algorithm gets nostalgic.

The frayed, even severed relationships are between loved ones who gather each summer for reunions. Siblings who once traveled together, in-laws who laughed until they cried on game night, and lifelong friends who belong to book clubs, Bunco groups and fantasy football pools.

Instead of planning when to play pickleball, those bound by blood are scheming how to arrange holiday parties without inviting that brother, cousin or aunt who voted for the wrong man or woman.

We talked about friends who once worshiped side by side, prayed for one another and taught Sunday school together. They don’t just sit in different corners of the chapel anymore; they attend different churches.

These were lifelong bonds — relationships built brick by brick over decades of shared history. The people you call when your tire blows out or your heart breaks.

And now, over votes cast or opinions held, they barely speak.

In our deeply divided world, it’s difficult to imagine there’s anyone who can’t relate — either personally or through someone else in your orbit.

As she talked, I could see the hurt. Not anger — pain. The sort that sits deep in the chest and doesn’t quite go away.

We aren’t mourning the loss of a debate. We’re mourning the loss of each other.

And long after the flight landed and we said goodbye, that’s the thought that still taxis in my mind.

Weeks later, we’re all settling into the sweet season of nativity sets, trimmed trees, carols, Christmas movies and cookie plates for neighbors. It’s the time of year when we celebrate hope, peace and goodwill — even if those ideas sometimes feel a little fragile.

No matter what you believe or how you celebrate, the holidays have the power to tug us back toward the better, softer parts of ourselves. Toward generosity, peace and patience. Back toward the idea that maybe, just maybe, we could set something down that’s been too heavy to carry.

What if the greatest gift we give this year isn’t bought, wrapped or shipped? What if the gift this year is forgiveness?

Not the mushy, vague kind. No, the kind with a specific name attached.

Maybe you already know exactly who that is for you.

The good news is that reconciliation isn’t usually a grand gesture. It’s rarely cinematic. It doesn’t require a monologue delivered in the snow while your breath fogs dramatically.

It’s smaller than that. More humble. More human.

It could come scribbled in a card or in a text that simply reads, “Thinking of you. I miss you. Merry Christmas.”

It’s bags of treats, poinsettias or pepperoni pizzas delivered to a doorstep with extra cheese but zero agenda.

And sometimes, when possible, the best delivery isn’t symbolic. It’s you standing on the porch with shaky hands and a soft heart.

Because here’s the truth: we don’t have to resolve everything to begin healing something. We don’t have to agree on the past to choose a better future. The holidays can be a perfect time to break the stalemate, open a door or say words we assumed we’d never say.

“We’re better than this.”

“I want us back.”

When we extend even a breath of peace, something inside us loosens. Something tight begins to unclench. Something hopeful begins to breathe again.

We all know the divides can feel complicated, layered and sometimes unfair. Wounds aren’t typically healed in a day or over dinner. But relationships worth grieving are the relationships worth fighting for.

If someone once occupied entire chapters of your life — vacations, late-night talks, family gatherings, spiritual milestones — maybe this is the year to write a new page together.

Not because it’s easy. But because they matter.

We give a lot of gifts during the holidays. Some are beautiful. Some are practical. Some will be returned on Dec. 26 with no hard feelings.

But a reconciled relationship? A bridge rebuilt? A grudge released? That might be the kind of gift that changes the entire season — or someone’s entire year.

This holiday season, no matter what it looks like for you and me, let’s give the gift of second chances, of fresh starts, of open hearts.

Together, we can celebrate something more personal than just peace on earth. 

Like peace between us.

DECEMBER 1, 2025.

Twenty years? I am definitely in my Christmas Jars feels.

Two decades ago this story was a mini manuscript buried among many. Then along came Shadow Mountain and Deseret Book, and everything in this image slowly came to life.

Without them, there’d be no books. No movie. And certainly no movement of jars appearing on doorsteps around the world.

They didn’t just publish a novella—they launched a legacy. But a publishing house is more than just a logo on a spine—it’s the people inside.

First, there’s Lisa Mangum, the editor who unearthed Christmas Jars from the proverbial slush pile. Lisa was the first to see the magic of the story and saved it from the digital dustbin. Without her, the other dominoes likely never fall into place.

Then there’s Heidi Gordon, who’s worn a hundred hats, and often all at once! She’s been the special ingredient behind so many of our best ideas. She’s also the brains behind the beautiful new cookbook we’re celebrating this year! Her talents are legendary.

And, of course, Chris Schoebinger is the heartbeat of it all. As the publisher, he’s been the #1 advocate of Christmas Jars since the beginning. He’s the reason they signed me to a contract, the reason the book was fast-tracked to market, and he’s been the book’s biggest cheerleader for two decades. He didn’t just publish a novella; he saw a spark that could light a thousand more. Twenty years ago he said to me, “I believe this book could change a million lives.” He was wrong! It changed a million and one—and the one was mine.

I must also express my deepest gratitude to the executive team, including Sheri Dew and Laurel Christensen Day. Most Christmas novels are lucky to get a season or two in the sun, but these remarkable leaders have never let the lights dim on Christmas Jars. Their endless support for the brand and the movement is virtually unheard of in publishing. They’ve probably never gotten the credit they deserve for preaching the power of Christmas Jars across their vast retail and publishing arms.

And finally, to the incredible team behind the scenes and to all those who’ve come and gone from the company. From sales and marketing to design and distribution. There are too many to name individually, but please know you’ve played an equally important role in turning the book into so much more.

To everyone at Shadow Mountain and Deseret Book: Happy Anniversary!

Here’s to 20 more years of stories, jars, and miracles. 

Lately it seems we’ve been plagued with far too many opportunities to forgive.

We’ve watched from afar as Erika Kirk forgave her husband’s killer.

We’ve seen communities in Minnesota and Michigan choose reconciliation after unthinkable tragedies in their churches and schools.

Sadly, I know a thing or two about forgiveness.

Not because I’m good at it, but because I’ve often struggled to forgive myself and others.

I remember, as a teenager, the unkind words I whispered behind my mother’s back in the kitchen. She didn’t hear me, but Dad sure did. He offered his unconditional forgiveness for my disrespect long before I forgave myself.

I recall the close friend in college I hurt when teasing crossed a line. Our friendship never recovered.

Years later, a colleague left me on an economic fishhook for what became hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt.

The decisions of others launched a lengthy season of struggle that nearly destroyed me.

Later, someone bought a small business from me, made one meager monthly payment, sold the assets, and disappeared. Years passed, and eventually I received a three-sentence apology by email.

In more recent years, a few corporate clients have broken promises that again left painful tattoos.

Only endless, expensive litigation might have helped any of these cases — but that was a path I simply couldn’t take.

I admit these challenges left long-lasting financial fingerprints. Still, these experiences cost me more than money; I allowed them to take a toll on my spiritual and mental health.

Perhaps that’s why, as my writing career evolved, I found myself drawn to stories of forgiveness.

My curiosity led me to write novels with heavy, deeply personal themes on the power of mercy. The plots are fictional, of course, but the lessons are real and raw.

Within each imaginary universe, I slowly learned the value of forgiveness.

I’ve also studied and profiled some remarkable true stories of forgiveness.

There’s the inspiring Snow family of Charlottesville, Virginia. When Leroy Snow, 72, a beloved local leader, was murdered by an intruder, the family forgave — no qualms.

A few years later, when Robert Snow, his grandson, was killed by a drunk driver while serving a mission for his church, the family forgave — no questions.

I’ve also profiled my dear friend Ashley Boyson, who was told by detectives late one evening that not only had her husband been having an affair, but that he was dead.

Emmett was murdered by the husband of his lover in a Walgreens parking lot.

It wasn’t easy, but Boyson quickly forgave all three characters in her real-life drama.

Perhaps one of the most well-known stories of forgiveness comes from Chris Williams.

Williams is the husband and father who survived a horrific car accident in 2007 in Salt Lake City, Utah, that took the lives of his 41-year-old pregnant wife, Michelle, the unborn baby they were expecting, plus their 11-year-old son, Ben, and 9-year-old daughter, Anna.

Williams’ journey to forgiving the drunk teenage driver didn’t take years, months, or even days. Within seconds of the crash — with his surviving son, Sam, still trapped inside the mangled vehicle — Williams had decided to unconditionally forgive the other driver.

There are endless bittersweet stories of forgiveness just like these.

Mothers who forgive killers.

Spouses who forgive infidelity.

Children who later forgive their abusers.

It’s not that they’ve forgotten, nor chosen to continue associating with those who created such pain, but they report, over and over, the freedom that comes from forgiveness.

They choose the future over the rearview mirror.

Candidly, I’m not proud of how long it’s taken me to forgive those who’ve wronged me.

I’m still a work in progress — a rookie — still behind the wheel trying my best to live forward.

But if the Snow family, Ashley Boyson, Chris Williams, and so many others can forgive in the face of terrible tragedies, I can certainly forgive those involved in my own heartaches and headaches.

I suppose the world will never stop presenting opportunities to forgive.

Someone will cut you off in traffic.

A colleague will take credit for your work.

A family member will disappoint you.

But here’s what the Snow family, Ashley Boyson, and Chris Williams taught me.

Forgiveness isn’t weakness.

It’s not forgetting.

It’s not necessarily reconciliation.

It’s simply refusing to let someone else’s worst moments define

your future.

That’s a choice we all have — every single day. 🙏

WOODSTOCK, VA, UNITED STATES, October 14, 2025 / New York Times bestselling author Jason Wright and his wife Kodi Wright, in partnership with Shadow Mountain Publishing, have released “The Christmas Jars Cookbook: Recipes, Crafts, and Heartwarming Stories from Our Family to Yours” today everywhere books are sold.

The unusual cookbook celebrates the 20th anniversary of Wright’s beloved novel “Christmas Jars” and offers families creative new ways to participate in the global giving movement that has inspired millions.

Since the publication of “Christmas Jars” in 2005, the simple tradition of filling a jar with spare change throughout the year and anonymously giving it to someone in need at Christmas has grown into a phenomenon. Families in every state and more than a dozen countries have given away jars totaling millions of dollars, transforming the lives of both givers and recipients. The movement has inspired a feature film, a podcast, and countless acts of kindness. Now, this deeply personal cookbook invites readers to extend generosity beyond financial gifts through homemade recipes, creative crafts, and heartfelt stories.

“If you’d told us twenty years ago that a jar of spare change would one day lead to a cookbook, we probably would’ve laughed—right after asking if that cookbook came with coupons for takeout,” Jason said. “Back then, we were just a young family with a recycled pickle jar sitting on our kitchen counter. We tossed in change whenever we could and gave it away at Christmas. Simple. Meaningful. Sticky, because someone — me — never remembered to rinse out the jar first.”

When Jason wrote “Christmas Jars,” the couple hoped a few readers might be inspired to start their own jars. They never imagined that families, classrooms, churches, and entire neighborhoods would join in. Over the years, people began asking a question that would shape this new project: “What can we put in the jar besides money?”

“That question stuck with us,” Kodi explained. “So we started dreaming. What if the next generation of Christmas Jars could be filled with something homemade? Something tasty or creative that could spread the same spirit of generosity? Before we knew it, our kitchen had become a test lab for cocoa mixes, soup jars, and more kinds of caramel than we care to admit.”

The 176-page cookbook features 30 recipes for treats and crafts suitable for all skill levels, and true stories from the Christmas Jars community. The Wrights describe the journey of creating it with characteristic humor: “We burned a few things. We spilled a lot. And once, Jason confused baking soda with cornstarch — a rookie mistake that will live in family legend. But we laughed our way through it, and somewhere in the flour cloud, The Christmas Jars Cookbook was born.”

The recipes range from beloved family favorites like Level-up S’mores Cookies and The Less Famous Reindeer Pops to Ginger’s Cream Cookies, a recipe traced to Kodi’s great-great-grandmother. The crafts include projects that even beginners can manage, all designed to be given away rather than kept.

“It’s part cookbook, part craft guide, and part reminder that kindness is supposed to be fun,” Kodi said. “We wanted this to feel like sitting around our kitchen table—snacking, laughing, and making something beautiful together. The best part? You don’t have to be a chef, crafter, or professional jar decorator to join in. Just start where you are. Grab a jar, some ribbon, a recipe, and a generous heart.”

The cookbook includes inspiring stories from people who have given and received Christmas Jars over the past two decades, demonstrating the profound impact of simple acts of generosity. It also features a favorite Christmas Jar memory from Jason, Kodi, and their four children. For the Wrights, the project represents both a celebration of the movement’s 20th anniversary and an invitation to continue spreading kindness in creative new ways.

“We hope this book feels like an invitation—to cook, to create, to laugh at the messes, and to give something from your hands and your heart,” Jason added. “Because after all these years, we still believe what that first little jar taught us: small, simple acts of kindness can change lives—sometimes even your own. And yes, we promise—this time, the jars are clean.”

“The Christmas Jars Cookbook: Recipes, Crafts, and Heartwarming Stories from Our Family to Yours” is available in hardcover, digital, and audiobook formats wherever books are sold. For more information about the cookbook, the Christmas Jars movement, and upcoming events, visit www.jasonfwright.com.

Visit us on social media:
LinkedIn
Instagram
Facebook
YouTube

I’ve stayed in a lot of hotels. In the last year alone I’ve spent 59 nights in 20 different properties between D.C. and L.A.

Some hotels lean on look and feel. Cushy carpet, lush lighting, fine furnishings. 

Others are all about service. Need your suit cleaned? Car washed? Favorite flip flops flown in from Finland?

Recently I visited the Marriott Residence Inn in Waynesboro, Virginia, franchised by Heritage Hospitality. They comped me a few nights and invited me to see what’s so special about their particular property.

Spoiler: The service, the room, and amenities are Marriott standard. But what sets them apart is their relentless sense of family. Theirs, yours, and the family we choose.

I chatted with staff, attended their employees-only morning huddle, and I sang (badly) their Residence Inn brand mission put into song. But it felt more like a family reunion than a global hotel chain’s pregame briefing.

Kris Pincock, the property’s general manager, gave birthday shoutouts and read recent reviews aloud. She encouraged, coached, and was generous with both her compliments and infectious laughter.

Over three days I met some truly lovely associates in management, maintenance, at the front desk, and in housekeeping. 

The truth? I could dedicate an article to them all. 

But recognizing my limited schedule and goals for the unbiased content I committed to deliver, Kris said she had the perfect person for me to shadow.

“This woman represents everything we stand for,” Kris said.

Her name is Pam Kelley, breakfast guru extraordinaire, and it doesn’t take long for her to adopt you.

Pam has been feeding guests breakfast at this Residence Inn since they opened in 2007. She’s met tens of thousands of travelers, and her stories are exactly what you’d expect to hear if you plopped down next to your favorite aunt at the family barbeque.

With the kind of wide, sweet smile that can’t be faked, Pam told me how co-workers and guests have become like family. They rely on each other, they pull together, and they always put family first.

A year ago when Pam decided it was time to tackle her health, her work family and many of her regular guests at the hotel served as cheerleaders. Combining her own willpower with the full faith of her family, Pam lost 50 pounds.

When Pam needs time off for family soccer games, they make it happen.

When Pam was in a serious car accident and needed extended time off to recover, they made it work.

But it’s not just the employees who feel like family.

Pam told me about a father and son who began staying there years ago when attending University of Virginia games in nearby Charlottesville. “UVA is thirty miles away, but they pass a lot of other hotels to choose to stay here.” That little boy is now a college student himself, and they still stay at this Residence Inn when attending games.

She also shared the story of an elderly couple who were regulars and once ran out of gas on the interstate not far from the hotel. “They could’ve called AAA, friends, or anybody else, but they called us. They called family.” 

Yes indeed, soon hotel staff were on the scene to save the day.

They’ve shoveled out cars, decorated doors for birthdays, and purchased Easter baskets for kiddos staying over the holiday weekend.

Remarkably, they have guests who’ve stayed months and even years. I even met one guest at breakfast who’s been working in the area and staying there for eight years!

But when I asked Pam if it’s mostly the regulars or those with Marriott status who are treated like they’re at home, she shook her head and corrected my assumption. “No, no, it’s the same whether they’re long timers or first timers.” 

Watching Pam on two different mornings, I can tell you just how true that is. How often have you seen someone at a hotel that offers free breakfast go table to table asking if folks need anything?

When we said goodbye, Pam told me how thankful she is for Kris, her friends, and her job. When I asked her to summarize why she’d stayed so long with no signs of leaving, she put it perfectly.

“I found a family here,” she said.

So did I, Pam. So did I.