ON A DARK and cold night just after Thanksgiving, I walk our quiet, dead-end country road. The sky is black, sprinkled with stars; the smell of wood smoke is in the air. Our Sheltie, Keira, is with me. I hear her off to the side, in the dry leaves. I know that she is well aware of my location, and will follow me, paralleling my route. I leave the flashlight off. It's better for thinking.

We had a difficult late summer, filled with health and job challenges, which led right into a tough fall. A routine screening pro- cedure in late September went awry, landing me first in the ER, then in the hospital for four days. A six-week recovery followed.

October brought Hurricane Sandy: While most in our area escaped damage (as our news stories breezily said), we did not. Sitting in our living room on that rainy, windy night, we heard the ominous sound of wood cracking followed by a tremendous crash that shook the house and drove us to our feet. A 100-foot red oak had fallen right next to our house, bringing two more oaks down with it. The tangle of trees barely missed us, clipping our screened-in porch and scraping our siding.

Superstorm Sandy seemed to cap off an election season that was so tense, so volatile. It seems we can no longer simply disagree in America, we have to hate each other, calling each other racists or communists (or both), spitting out our words like rocket-propelled grenades. I think of what Jesus taught: "You have heard that it was said to the people long ago, 'Do not murder, and anyone who murders will be subject to judgment.' But I tell you that anyone who is angry with his brother will be subject to judgment. [A]nyone who says, 'You fool!' will be in danger of the fire of hell."

Are any of us guilt-free?