It was Thanksgiving of my senior year (2014). My Grandma and I had left the raucous in the kitchen and were perusing her personal library. From the shelves she pulled a tattered 40 year old copy of Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning (1946). A few months later when I suffered a catastrophic knee injury, Frankl’s exposition on of finding meaning in suffering had new relevance in my life. Since then I have read and reread Frankl’s story of his experiences at Auschwitz, each time reveling in the beauty and poignancy of his words on the responsibility of man to choose the right attitude toward life.