An open letter to the men who tried to kill me ...

First, thank you.

When you broke into our house on December 22, 1981, you weren't able to put your hands on me, but you did swat my life into a new trajectory. Your actions that night remain a defining event in my life.

When there's a quality in the air, the misty sensation of this time of year, and this day comes around again, I can feel my senses heighten, and I see more, hear more than at any other time of the year. I no longer have to remind myself, as Hemingway noticed, to be strong in the broken places. It's simply a time for observation and reflection. That this coincides with the Christmas season has brought great joy into my life, and for that I thank you again.

Throughout all these years, I've imagined what I would say to these men if I ever had the chance to encounter them. For the first few years, I would imagine this sit-down would have to include lots of security, as my main feeling was fear. Fear that enveloped my entire soul.

Then, I grew angry. Angry that I'll spend my whole life scanning the scene for possible threats, possible exit strategies, items I can use as weapons. When this became too dominant in my life, I sought professional help, and that led to lots of inner reflection about other forces in my life, and for that, again I thank you.

On some level, when you picked our house, you set in motion the forces that would make me a teacher someday. As a secure adult, someone staring down 50, with hobbies that inspire me, good friends that support me and a husband whose voice still makes me weak, I'm now just curious about who you were.

I wonder where you grew up, who your family is, what happened to you in school. Did you struggle as a student? Did someone try to help? Did you have a connection with a successful and caring adult at some point? Did a coach challenge you, show you how to play on a team and work hard to meet each little goal? Where did the break happen, where robbery and murder became a path for you? (I'm not naive - I know these men probably had mental health issues, likely drug problems, and really, they're probably long dead, as such a violent path usually doesn't translate to a long life.)

I sometimes try to look at my kids through this lens. If we are all batting each other around, affecting each other's lives for better or worse, what can I do to swat my kids onto a path that will inspire them to treat each other well, to work hard at something that lifts them up? When I get it right, I owe you thanks for giving me the questions.

You might want to know that your influence now runs into a new generation. Because I was able to escape that night, I lived long enough to give birth to a beautiful little girl, who is now preparing for a life in social work. Her passion for her studies inspires me, and I'm so proud of her for making it her life's work to help others.

So, I owe you a great deal.

You had no way of knowing my father would die on this same day, many years later. This will be the 15th Christmas without my dad. It's impossible to calculate the impact a loving, supportive and educated man has on a girl when he believes she can do anything, be anything she wants. My dad lives in every cell in my body. I wonder if you had someone like that in your life.

You are a part of these two December 22 anniversaries, and while you may not have ever known it, you and I are forever connected. When I manage to do good in this world, I do it - partly - in your name.

Thank you.