This week, I’ve been watching our four-year-old granddaughter carry her cross. Violet is probably too young to understand the concept, but she is doing it.

Violet and Nola have a new, baby brother, who is adorable. So, they have come to stay with us for the week. But Violet is shy. So shy I have seen her sit like a statue for twenty minutes rather than risk having to speak to someone she does not know well.

Even cousins she loves but doesn’t see often make her nervous. And in a group of people with whom she is comfortable, she still hangs at the edge.

But this week, she is facing crowds of people who are pure strangers to her. They know who she is, and they all want to talk to her, and tell her how cute she is and how sweet the pictures are of her brother on social media.

And, she is facing it. She even smiles occasionally. And, once or twice, she has given out an actual hug.

I praised her one day for “overcoming her fear for the sake of love.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I did it. But my stomach still kind of hurts.”

And, that, Dear Reader, is what it means to carry one’s cross.