Taking God’s hand

When I was a child, we lived only a short distance from the office building on Main Street where my dad worked. For exercise he frequently walked to and from work. I can see him now, taking long strides toward Main Street as he left the house in the mornings. He always came home in the afternoon at the same time, so I would watch for him and go running down the sidewalk to meet him, not just for the little treat (a piece of candy or gum) he always had for me in his coat pocket, but mostly for the love I felt when he took my hand and slowed down his pace to meet mine.

One day something unexpected happened. My dad passed on. I was still a child, barely 14 to be exact. Feeling lost, I struggled with grief and missing him for many years. 

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January 10, 2011
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