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We were just reading at breakfast.
Nothing orchestrated, nothing special… and I had no idea Sledge was about to teach me another huge lesson.
He turned the page, saw the ambulance, and suddenly his whole face lit up.
He pointed with urgency, yelled out, “MA-MA! HE–LP MA-EEEE!”—the closest he could get to telling the story his heart remembered.
And then he looked right at me, as if to say, I know what happened. I remember. And I’m okay.
That moment nearly took me out.
Because he wasn’t afraid.
He wasn’t reliving trauma.
He was remembering kindness.
He remembered the EMS workers who knelt low, spoke gently, and helped save his life.
He remembered the safety of their care, the comfort of their presence.
He remembered being held—by human hands and by the hands of a God who never left the room.
Kindness does that.
It becomes a marker in our memories.
It interprets what could have been terrifying through a lens of tenderness and truth.
It roots itself somewhere deeper than language—understood long before it’s spoken, remembered long after the moment has passed.
And today reminded me: Sledge wanted to remember.
He chose to come back to the moment—not in fear, but in clarity.
Because the Lord is the One who gets to filter our perspective.
He is the One who can redeem and restore what once felt heavy, hard, or scary…
and turn it into a vehicle of wisdom, hope, and unexpected peace.
Watching my little warrior point at that ambulance—eager, confident, unafraid—felt like witnessing the miracle of perspective in real time.
God didn’t erase the memory; He rewrote it with mercy.
To the EMS workers who showed up with such gentleness: your kindness continues to bear fruit in ways you may never see.
To anyone walking through healing: trust that God is shaping what you remember and how you remember it.
His compassion is always the final word.
Kindness is never forgotten.
And today, my boy reminded me exactly why. 🤍✨
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