“Are you guys up there?” our almost three-year-old grandson called from the bottom of the basement stairs.
“I’m in the living room,” I replied from where I was doing my morning devotions.
“Is the baby gate open?” he hollered.
“Yes,” I hollered back.
He lowered his voice and gave himself a pep talk. “I can crawl up the stairs instead of holding the handrail. And I won’t be afraid of the dark.”
I heard him scramble up the steps, and a few seconds later, he walked through the door. “I’m here, Grammy,” he announced and climbed into my lap for a hug. “I’m here!”
Before I could ask if his parents had given him permission to visit, his father came through the door. Obviously, his daddy had known where he was going and had been with him in the whole time. We snuggled and talked about his day before he and his daddy went back down to their apartment.
After they left, I thought about my grandson’s slow conquering of his fear of the dark. My mind wandered to times when I couldn’t see a way through the darkness that infiltrated my workplace and touched my family through illness, death, and unexpected life changes in the past. I thought of my mother and my dear uncle and aunt who are in failing health. When they die, the people who walked me through childhood, who followed close behind as I braved the dark will be gone.
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