I’m watching cars approach the terminal when I hear a familiar voice. I turn to see my 7-year-old granddaughter sprinting towards me. She runs into my arms. A man watching the scene says: Someone is happy to see you.  Which is part of the magic of grandchildren. They are so happy to see you. And it fills my heart.  Her other grandma and I meet her for lunch at school the next day. She guides us through the lunch line–how is it always the same?–and takes us to a high table with barstools. Over popcorn chicken and rice, we hear about her morning.  At the end of lunch, she arranges…

The house is quiet and I’m at the kitchen table folding clothes. It’s been a long time since I’ve folded my son’s garments. Lay out, fold and roll, the way his dad showed me. It’s mundane, but in the stillness, it feels sacred. Something I’m grateful to do. I feel teary writing about it and grateful God gave me the presence to notice it. Memories collide in my head. I’m in Oklahoma, where I raised my children. We lived here in their early years. I’ve had moments like this the entire week.  Snuggling Georgia — just 12 days from heaven — her eyes focused on my face for a few…