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While walking with my husband several days ago, we passed a mother holding the hand of a small child. Memories of walking with my own young children flooded my mind and filled my heart. I was stunned by this impression: there is nothing more beautiful in life than holding a child’s tiny hand in yours.

Growing up, my family lived several hundred miles away from both sets of my grandparents. Visits with them were infrequent. I never got to know any of them the way I would’ve liked to.

When I was around nine, my maternal grandfather, who had recently lost both his wife and his eyesight, came to stay at our home for a few days. He seemed worn out and sad.

Because of his blindness, it wasn’t safe for him to go outdoors on his own. One day, my mother told me to take Grandpa for a walk. So, I put my small hand in his and led him safely around our yard.

That is the only memory I have of spending time alone with any of my grandparents. I treasure it.


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