This is the handprint of one of our grandchildren on the front door of our house in Phoenixville Pennsylvania, it has been there for months. We do not know which child left us this memory and it does not really matter. We have not washed it off because it is more precious than an archeological discovery. A small treasure from another world, framed and given to us by God, the artwork of Heaven.
Grandchildren are called grand for a reason. Our children turn us into sober adults, we are forced to grow up and be responsible. We work harder and longer to pay the ever-increasing bills as we are willingly transformed into the economic lubricant for the machine that is the modern age. But then the children of our children come along and magically make us human again. They restore our zest and renew our strength for the battle, because we know they are worth fighting for.
Raising a child is like building a cathedral. It requires generations of hands and prayers, including hands that will not live to see the completed structure. Grandparents know this but we help to build the cathedral anyway. Because we love it. Because we know how important it is. Because we can already see Heaven inhabiting it; that’s what the hearts of children are for, a dwelling place for God. Have you ever considered what a heavy, joyful, honor it is to be permitted to help shape a life?
Grandchildren give us a wonderful second chance at things. We can now exercise all the patience, tenderness, gentleness, and wisdom that we didn’t with their parents. Ha. They remind me not to be selfish; “Jimdad, will you play with me?” I can never say no. things that were a chore as a parent become a delight as a grandparent. Holding small hands as we cross the street. Buckling them into a car seat as they chatter like a bird. Sitting in a diner with them as they munch on grilled cheese and ask non-stop stream-of-consciousness questions about everything and nothing. We are their connection to the past and all that went before. We are their history. We are their stories. I love swimming in a child’s curiosity.
Grandchildren leave their handprints on our doors, but they also leave them on our walls, and on our refrigerators, and on our lives. God uses their soft hands to resurrect our calloused hearts. I can neither sing nor dance but somehow my grandchildren are able to get me to do both. They remind me that I need to take care of myself so that I will be around for them. I want to be as strong as I can, for as long as I can, so that I can be here to help make their world a better place.
God has no grandchildren of his own, only sons and daughters. Each day, in my prayers, I bring mine before him one by one, so that he can dote on them. If we can do nothing else as grandparents, we can do that. Never stop praying.
“Grandchildren are the crown of the aged”, the scripture says. No argument there, they make me feel like a king. My grandchildren are filling in all the spaces in my life that I didn’t even know were empty. They are the poets of reality, little engineers of happiness. They have healed my vision as I learn to look upon things with their eyes and realize, once again, that the world is magical.