I have a string of these paper lanterns (I call them my “happy lights”) hanging at work. They’re happy lights because when I was a little girl, my Oma brought us each a paper lantern from Germany. They were tucked carefully in her suitcase along with other small treasures—an apple-shaped chalkboard with red trim, paper dolls, milk chocolate. It wouldn’t have mattered what she brought; she always had a way of making you feel special and loved. But the lanterns were extra special. At night, we’d carry them on wooden sticks, with real candles lit inside, and go for a walk with Oma and Opa, all of us singing. It was magic, the way the flames danced inside those lanterns, brightening up the darkness with bold color, the way we made every limited moment count.