While eating lunch at a mall food court, my 6-year-old son Micah noticed an older janitor named Frank who looked tired and sad. Without hesitation, Micah walked up to him, offered him his cookie, and gently asked if he missed his dad. The question broke something open. Frank knelt down, hugged Micah, and cried. He later shared that his own son had died two years earlier, and he had never spoken about it since.
From that day on, we met Frank every Thursday at the same table. What began as a small moment of kindness became a tradition filled with stories, laughter, and quiet healing. Frank slowly became part of our family. A year later, at Micah’s birthday party, Micah proudly called him “Grandpa Frank.”
Sometimes, the deepest healing comes from unexpected places — and sometimes, it takes a child’s heart to remind us how to love again.
