He’s in college and home for the holidays. His mother was one of the speakers in the main meeting in church and so his grandmother, whom I know a little bit, was there, too.

After the second meeting I went up to the two women: the younger one, to thank her for her remarks.

She had gone through multiple surgeries, she’d said, and was trying to sleep one night while fighting fierce, unrelenting pain. She’d finally prayed, I just want to sleep!

And felt the answer, Be willing to feel the pain. Acknowledge it. Live with it. Give away the fear of it to Me.

That was a reset, for sure, but as she tried to do that, knowing her Savior had felt all our pain for us, she was able to find peace at last and slept.

I thanked her for that because I knew that scenario well and that her words would be remembered and offer guidance to those who will find themselves there someday. It was a powerful talk.

But I had one other thing I wanted to tell her and her mom:

I explained losing my balance 25 years ago–and that with my foot in a boot, the tactile half of the visual/tactile feedback that realigns my up vs down was thrown off. I was trying to walk out of the chapel with a lot of people moving around me and nearly falling over at every step, holding onto the back of each pew carefully step by step. (Richard was in a conversation and didn’t see.)

Her son noticed. He stepped forward and asked if he could do anything to help. I explained my little weirdness to him and he asked, a little hesitatingly not sure he was reading this right if I needed an arm?

It took me a split second, but yes that’s exactly what I needed. I didn’t need to hang off his arm or anything and didn’t, I just needed to lightly touch it as we walked steadily together across the building. Piece of cake. I flashed back to the brain rehab of long ago.

He saw, he noticed, he offered, he meant it, and he made all the difference and I wanted to be sure his mother and grandmother knew that.

They were so proud of him.

Rightfully so.