ÚLTIMA HORA: Declaración de Hilton a @FoxNews: "Los hoteles Hilton son lugares acogedores para todos. Este hotel es de propiedad y operación independiente, y las acciones mencionadas no reflejan los valores de Hilton. Estamos investigando este asunto con este hotel en particular, y podemos confirmar que Hilton trabaja con gobiernos, fuerzas del orden y líderes comunitarios en todo el mundo para garantizar que nuestras propiedades estén abiertas y sean acogedoras para todos."

La empresa de $30M del esposo de Ilhan Omar elimina silenciosamente nombres de su sitio web, mientras la miembro del 'Squad' enfrenta crecientes preguntas sobre su repentina riqueza en medio de un fraude de bienestar en Minnesota.

Every Christmas Eve, I think about George Bailey. He dreamed of escaping Bedford Falls—of shaking off the dust of a small town, building skyscrapers, exploring the world. Instead, he stayed. He ran the Building & Loan his father left behind. He sacrificed his college money, his honeymoon savings, his chance to see the world, over and over, because people needed him. By the time the crisis hits, George feels like a failure. His life looks like one long series of missed opportunities, thwarted ambitions, and quiet resentments. He stands on the bridge, convinced the world would be better without him. Then Clarence shows him the truth: a Bedford Falls without George Bailey is a darker, meaner, hollowed-out place. The people he quietly helped, the small acts of integrity he performed without recognition, the risks he took to protect others—those weren’t detours. They were the substance of his life. The film’s deepest insight isn’t just that “no man is a failure who has friends.” It’s that real impact is almost always invisible in the moment. The lives you steady, the small kindnesses you extend, the responsibilities you shoulder when no one else will—these things ripple outward in ways you may never see. A strong sense of purpose doesn’t erase pain; it transforms it. It doesn’t merely explain why hard things happened. It asks: What are you now responsible for because they happened? Faith, at its best, does the same. It doesn’t promise that everything was “meant to be” in order to make suffering palatable. It invites you to look at what has been entrusted to you in light of what you’ve endured. George’s story reminds us that meaning is rarely found in the grand escape, but in the faithful presence. The dreams we surrender don’t always vanish—they often become the raw material for something more enduring than we imagined. If you’re carrying the weight of roads not taken, of dreams deferred, of a life that feels smaller than you once hoped—watch It’s a Wonderful Life again tonight. Not as nostalgia, but as revelation. You may not see the full difference you’ve made yet. But it’s there. And it matters more than you know. Merry Christmas, friends. 🎄🇨🇽🎅🦌☃️⛪️✝️❤️