Grandparenting

I became a grandparent two years after all of this happened with Sophie.

I have often said that becoming a grandmother was a gift God timed perfectly. In the middle of chaotic rehabilitation, unanswered questions, and not knowing what Sophie’s life would look like long-term, God gave me this tiny reminder of life. A new little life that had nothing to do with hospitals or scans or therapy schedules. A baby who simply needed to be held, loved, and enjoyed.

I was a little younger than many of our good friends, so they entered grandparenting before I did. I was genuinely happy for them, but if I’m honest, I never fully understood the goo-goo-ga-ga, head-over-heels, all-consuming love they talked about.

Then I held our little guy for the first time.

And I understood.

There is something magical about watching your daughter become a mama. I had all girls, so these two grandsons we now have are a complete enigma to me. I am constantly in awe of them.

My husband has always said I couldn’t have handled boys, so God gave me girls.

I think he might have been right.

Oh, but God gave me grandsons.

And what a wild, amazing ride it is.

Those little boys aren't really the focus today—although I did stop writing this very post to look at some pictures my daughter recently sent of their dinnertime antics. So, perhaps they are a little bit the focus after all.

Sophie’s Grandparents

But today, I find myself thinking about Sophie's grandparents.

My mother and father were so hands-on during those early days.

While Kevin and I sat vigil beside Sophie’s bed for three weeks, my father always showed up with lunch for us. Kevin and I would go down to the parking lot, get our emotional sustenance in the form of a hug and words of faith and encouragement, and then Dad would hand us a bag with our physical sustenance, our food.

It was such a simple thing.

And yet, it meant everything.

I knew my parents were praying continually. My mother kept the extended family informed so they could pray, too.

I firmly believe my faith came from my father, and my writing and sharing that faith with others comes through my mother.

Mama passed away four years ago this month, but even today we still find scraps of paper with her thoughts and wisdom. Journals and planners filled with love notes to her children, poems, and streams of thoughts.

She was a writer, for sure.

But she was busy raising her true legacy.

Being a published author was simply a thought that might happen someday.

And Dad…

He was the definition of bi-vocational. He had a secular job, but for years he also served as the high school Sunday School teacher, and everyone wanted to be with Mr. Wolf. But the faith that carried me through these past few dark years wasn’t formed simply by the things he taught. It was formed by watching him live it day after day, year after year. I watched him get up early each morning for quiet prayer and study. I watched him serve others with a genuine servant’s heart. His faith wasn’t just something he talked about on Sunday; it was the way he lived his life.

I caught his faith.

And that faith became part of the foundation that carried me through some of the hardest years of my life.

My parents got us through those days in the hospital and through the thick of the unknown. But they didn't stop there.

They helped transport Sophie to rehabilitation and therapy appointments. They let her spend time with them so I could get a few hours of work in and keep my job. They were not simply the substitutes I called when I needed someone…

They were family who stepped in because that is what our family does.

Sophie doesn't remember much from that first year after her AVM rupture. But she does remember taking naps on their couch.

They would encourage her to go upstairs to one of the bedrooms and get some quality sleep. But she would insist that she needed to snuggle underneath Grandma’s blanket and listen to their voices as they talked to each other.

She said it was the sound that lulled her to sleep because it was solid.

It was safe.

It was home.

I think about that now with my own grandchildren.

Am I that safe place?

Am I creating the kind of home where my grandchildren will feel known, loved, and secure?

Am I giving them more than fun memories and spoiled afternoons? Am I giving them something that will anchor them when life becomes hard?

Scripture gives grandparents a beautiful and purposeful role in the story of faith. We see the importance of multigenerational discipleship throughout the Bible, the passing down of God's faithfulness, His works, His promises, and the stories of what He has done.

Deuteronomy 4:9 says:

"Be careful, and watch yourselves closely so that you do not forget the things your eyes have seen or let them fade from your heart as long as you live. Teach them to your children and their children after them."

There is something about that command that feels especially meaningful to me now.

Teach them to your children and their children after them.

I think about my dad teaching me.

I think about my mama writing to me.

I think about what they modeled without even realizing that someday I would look back and understand just how much they were giving me.

They weren't simply raising children.

They were building a legacy.

And now I have the privilege and the responsibility of carrying that legacy forward.

Today, I find myself thanking God for parents who took that seriously. Parents who taught us about faith not only with their words but with their lives.

I can't imagine what these last five years would have looked like or felt like without the foundation they gave me.

When Sophie’s life was hanging in the balance, I didn't suddenly develop faith.

I leaned on the faith I had watched my parents live.

And I wonder now if the same will be true for my children and grandchildren.

Will they remember my words?

Maybe.

But I hope they remember how I lived.

I hope they remember a grandmother who prayed.

A grandmother who pointed them toward Jesus.

A grandmother who made them laugh and probably spoiled them a little (or a lot).

A grandmother who showed up.

A grandmother whose home felt safe.

A grandmother who told them the stories of God's faithfulness not just once, but over and over again.

A grandmother who understood that what we give the next generation is about so much more than possessions or accomplishments.

It is about what they catch from watching us live.

I pray I have done that for my children.

And I pray I can continue that legacy with my grands.

Because five years ago, I was reminded just how quickly life can change.

And now, every time I hold one of those little boys, I am reminded again that life is a gift.

A legacy is a gift.

Faith is a gift.

And sometimes the greatest gifts we receive are the ones we are called to pass on.

Thank you, Dad.

And Mama.

Thank you for the faith you lived.

Thank you for the love you gave.

Thank you for being our safe place when we needed one.

And thank you for giving me a legacy that I pray will continue for generations to come.

I hope my grandchildren can one day say of me what Sophie said of you:

It was solid.

It was safe.

It was home.