Last spring, a Ukrainian woman's post in a Facebook group caught Grace Cohen's eye.

Cohen, a 28-year-old graphic designer in the St. Louis area, had been following the news about the war in Ukraine, researching ways she might be able to help. She learned that Americans could sponsor someone from Ukraine if they agreed to house and support the individual for two years.

Soon after, Cohen saw a Facebook post from Anastasia Kabanchuk, a 24-year-old English translator whose parents sent her to Poland a few weeks after Russia attacked Ukraine.

"I can't stay here in Poland for long, so right now I'm looking for a sponsor to help me move to the USA," she wrote.

Cohen discussed the idea with her fiance. He was on board. So, she commented on Kabanchuk's post: "Hey, I'm in St. Louis. Message me if you're interested in staying with me."

The two women talked via a video call the next day. By the end of the conversation, they seemed like a good match for the sponsor program.

Cohen's relatives and friends had mixed responses to the idea that a stranger from across the world would move into her home. Half of them thought it was crazy; the others thought it was incredibly kind.

Just before Russia invaded last year, Kabanchuk's parents told her she needed to go stay with their friends in Poland. She refused to leave her parents behind. But when the Russians targeted nuclear power plants in March, her mother said Anastasia was leaving for Warsaw the next day. They found a bus ticket, and it was time to say goodbye.

"Do not worry. Do not cry," her mother said to her. Her mom said the separation would likely just last a week; her father said he wanted her to be safe. Kabanchuk tried her best not to cry.

It took 12 hours to get to the Polish border, then another 14 hours to cross it -- her bus was just one of dozens, all filled with Ukrainians leaving. Since the Russian invasion began, more than 12 million Ukrainians have fled their homes, including 5 million who have left the country.

Once she was in Poland, Kabanchuk's family friends picked her up and drove her to their home a few hours away. Her weeklong stay ended up lasting five months.

Cohen, an only child like Kabanchuk, grew up in Missouri. When she was in elementary school, she remembers her mom, Lori, passing a homeless person on a street corner while driving home. As soon as they arrived home, her mother made a sandwich, put together a boxed meal and drove back to the man to give it to him.

"It made such a big impression on me," Cohen said. "She was the kindest, most generous person I've ever met."

Her mother was diagnosed with melanoma and died when Cohen was 17.

Her father, Victor, worked as a real estate agent and landlord. He would often go out of his way to try to find shelter for someone in need. His grandparents had fled from Poland before World War II.

He was fighting leukemia when he caught COVID-19 two years ago.

He didn't survive the virus.

"I miss them so much every day," Cohen said.

Losing both her parents made her realize how much it had meant to grow up in a loving and safe environment. She knows her parents would have supported her decision to sponsor a person displaced by war.

"I often imagine what it would've been like to be a Jew during World War II, and how I would've hoped someone would be generous enough to shelter or hide me," she said.

Her decision to take in Kabanchuk felt like a way to honor her parents.

After the decision was made, Cohen and Kabanchuk filled out the paperwork online. It was quickly approved, and Kabanchuk arrived in St. Louis on July 14. As soon as Kabanchuk unpacked her suitcase, Cohen took her to her favorite bar to meet a friend. Kabanchuk was excited to discover what her life in St. Louis might be like, but also a bit scared.

Meeting Cohen and her friend made her feel less lonely.

Kabanchuk says she was fortunate to have her application for a work permit approved quickly. She constantly worries about her parents in Ukraine, as power outages can last for hours and it takes longer to receive a response to her messages. Nonetheless, she recently got her driver's license and landed a job as an administrative assistant. Even though Cohen has told her she is welcome to stay as long as she needs, Kabanchuk would like to be able to get her own apartment eventually.

She says that even when she does move out, she and Cohen will stay close and see one another regularly. Her dream is to be able to take Cohen to her home in Ukraine -- to meet her parents, to experience their culture and hospitality.

She talks about that day longingly.

A day when families can be reunited.

A day when the war is over.

In early November, I received a message from my cousins in Houston that my uncle had started hospice care and was unlikely to survive for long.

The sooner you can come, the better, my cousin said. My father's older brother, Abbas Khawaja, and his wife and children were our only nearby family growing up. My parents shared an apartment with my aunt and uncle in Chicago when they first arrived in America. I was born into that joint family apartment, as was my older cousin.

Those bonds have remained tight my entire life. So, when I received word of my uncle's rapid decline, I booked the next flight out of St. Louis.

I had to say goodbye to him.

I often describe my Abbas taya as larger than life: a dashing, charming, self-made successful businessman who loved his family and the good life. He delighted in making us laugh. Unlike parents, whose job involves discipline as much as love, my uncle didn't feel the need to reprimand or even try to guide me in any way.

I was always a star in his eyes. At least, that's how he made me feel.

In his later years, he began to struggle with dementia and some health issues. It was heartbreaking to see someone so vibrant and strong begin to diminish. In 2020, he nearly died when he got sick with COVID. The disease's lasting impact destroyed his mobility and severely compromised his lungs.

I would make a point to see him and my aunt whenever I visited my family. He would brighten during these visits. Sometimes I would catch glimpses of his old self. I dreaded the day he would no longer recognize me.

I made it to Houston in time to say farewell -- to kiss his cheek and thank him for a lifetime of love.

He died the next day.

During his funeral and burial, hundreds of people came to pay their respects: relatives, friends, old factory workers from the first business he started. I realized what a comfort it is to hear stories about how a person you've lost has touched other people's lives. I saw how much it meant to my father, my aunt and my cousins that our family was there for them to lean on during their grief.

One question kept pulling at me during that time: Who did I shower with unconditional love and support the way my uncle did for all of us? Obviously, our children are the center of our world, but was I making the most of my role as an aunt to my dozen nieces and nephews, especially since none of them live in the same city as us? To truly make someone feel like you believe in them is such a precious gift. You get as much from giving it freely and abundantly.

One of my taya's older nephews hugged my grieving father and said, "He loved like a child."

I keep coming back to those words.

It makes sense that as I get older, I offer condolences more frequently; in the week after my taya's death, I attended two other memorial services. Each one affected me in profound ways. When I go through a season heavy with loss, I reevaluate how I'm living my own life.

The services I attended crossed religious and cultural lines -- one Muslim, one Jewish and one secular, at which a monk spoke -- but the themes were remarkably similar. The bereaved shared stories of how their loved ones helped others, repaired a bit of brokenness in the world and enriched their lives.

At some point, we all carry holes of loss in our hearts. We try to carry on the legacies of those who have changed us. And we can find comfort in unexpected ways.

I am comforted in knowing that there was never a time when my uncle didn't recognize me.

He left knowing he was loved.

In July, I shared an update about Tyra Johnson, a single mom in St. Louis, whose story I have followed for the past two years.

At that moment in the summer, her life was falling apart. Someone had stolen her car, and she didn't have transportation to work or child care for her three young children. She also had a ticket for driving without a license.

That column sparked an outpouring of support from readers.

The first challenge was to help Johnson, 32, get her driver's license. She had always driven on a learner's permit. A reader connected her friends Simon Anderson and Sara Jay, who own Coach Harder Driving School, with Johnson's story and asked if they could help.

They immediately offered multiple driving lessons and also offered to accompany her to the test until she passed.

"Families without an easy form of transportation have many hardships that are unique to their situation -- especially for single-parent families with several children," Anderson said. "With three young kids ourselves, we can only imagine how difficult it is to raise them alone. We heard of Tyra and her hard times and were amazed by her positive attitude and optimism."

Their desire to help was cemented after meeting her in person, he said.

Johnson passed the driving test on her first attempt.

"I'm the first one of my mom's children to get a license," she said, crying tears of joy.

Anderson and his wife were among many who wanted to help. Another local do-gooder, Riz Khan, runs the Little Angels Foundation. After reading the story, he asked his members to donate to help buy Johnson another car. They responded enthusiastically. He also reached out to his friend, Zia M. Ahmad, who heads Muslim Community Services, St. Louis, and shared the story.

Ahmad was moved, and his members donated generously.

"Hearing about Tyra's plight and the difficulties she was facing in going about her daily responsibilities after her car was stolen, members of our group were moved to help her," Ahmad said. One of their members began searching for a safe and reliable used SUV, which was hard to find in the heated used-car market. When they finally found one, they purchased it, along with insurance and an anti-theft device.

When Johnson found out about the car, she cried again.

"I didn't know how I was going to make a way," she said. She had lost her job with Walmart because of child care and transportation issues. Another reader donated $600 in Uber gift cards, and they had quickly run out.

While these two local organizations quickly stepped up to replace her car, nearly a hundred readers wrote asking how they could contribute and help. Phil Sher, 78, a retired financial adviser, had connected with Johnson after I first wrote about her in August 2020. He set up a GoFundMe for her.

Donors contributed nearly $20,000 to that fund, which Sher manages for Johnson.

"It was beyond my expectations," Sher said. He's used the money to pay for a rental car during the month it took to find, purchase and transfer the title for a replacement car to her. It's also paid off a significant amount of her bills that had accumulated.

When Sher first got involved in helping Johnson, he said his goal was to help move her and her children out of the cycle of poverty and into the middle class.

He's hopeful about her attaining this goal eventually.

Johnson wants to use the remaining funds to either move to a safer apartment or as a down payment on a house. She has found a full-time job as a receptionist for a crisis hotline, signed up for a first-time homebuyers' program through Better Family Life St. Louis and is taking night classes to earn her high school diploma through MERS Goodwill. She is learning about budgeting and how to improve her credit score.

"I'm in a better place in life now," Johnson said.

Johnson said she has stayed in touch with Khan, who kicked off the campaign to replace her car. He and his volunteers spend every Saturday morning feeding the homeless downtown. She said she's looking forward to joining them soon.

"He helped me when I didn't have help," she said.

She hopes to pay it forward.