A couple of Sundays ago, as I held hands with my son during the prayer at church, I was made painfully aware how fast time goes by. No longer was his hand tiny, like when I brought him home from the hospital. Nor was it miniature as when I walked him to his Kindergarten room. Now, his hand was taking the form of a young man, strong and a bit larger than mine. He held my hand firmly, not grudgingly like a few years ago when he would die of embarrassment if he was caught holding his mother’s hand. Memories flooded into my mind—the clay plate my husband made me with our son’s tiny hand prints embedded in it, the construction paper turkey my son made in 2 nd grade. Then a memory came back that was not so pleasant and whimsical, but downright terrifying. The memory began when my son was 3 years old. We were living in an apartment complex in Las Vegas. I had the day off and was busy doing laundry in the community downstairs laundry room. My son was playing out...