Copyright © 2019
by Ralph F. Couey
For someone neck-deep into the later years of life, there is usually a kind of mundane sameness to each day. We have our routines, constructed around the things we have to do along with a little time for what we like to do. Day after day, the calendar ticks along, the days passing all too quickly, like posts flashing past the windows of a speeding car. There is a kind of grayness to that existence. Then, one day grandchildren show up.
They burst into the house, bringing a most wonderful noise with them. They smile big, and come at you with arms wide, ready for that first great big hug. They're all full of news about where they've been, what they've been doing...little lives full of really big things.
The first thing you notice is that they grow. Rapidly. Too rapidly. They're taller, their speech more sophisticated. For the older ones, you begin to see the beginnings of that descent into madness we have come to know...and remember...as adolescence. But it's all new stuff wrapped up into special lives that you know you can never live without. One of the wonderful things that I've come to realize is to recognize that these are lives for whom the story has yet to be written. I have to admit that there are days when I feel tired and used up. But spending even a few minutes with my grandchildren, I realize that there is still so much life yet to be lived.
You see, because of my long perspective, I see a world where people choose to divide themselves based on blind obeisance to party politics. I see a world where violent crime and senseless acts become more common. I see a world spiraling down into some kind of suicidal black hole. But even a few minutes with grandchildren, and I realize that in these young lives hope survives. In their presence, I believe that the world can survive; that things can be better if for no other reason than they can make it happen.
In a procession of gloomy grey days, they are sunbursts of light. Like the Milky Way, they bring a soft glow to the darkest of nights. And at least in my own at times tortured soul, they remind me that good things are still possible.
So, I had fourteen fabulously joyful days to share with them. Now that the holidays are over, they have begun to depart back home. I still have two wonderful little lives to be with until they leave for their home New Year's Day. But truthfully, I've never had fourteen days pass so rapidly. And I know that the next three will flash by with a speed that will not be controlled despite my fervent wishes. But while I mourn the passage of this very special time, I am still thankful that we were together.
We all want happy lives for our offspring. But life has a way of quashing joy. Work becomes burdensome. The long list of "have-to-dos" we all have to deal with can dominate and overcome even the simple happiness of watching a small child cuddle their special favorite stuffed animal. I tell young people that the time of raising children consist of long days, but short years. One day, they're running around the house while you deal with a mountain of laundry. Then, all too soon, they are out the door, out of the house, and on the path wherever their destiny leads. This leaves an emptiness. For 20 or so years, they were our biggest priority, our biggest burden, our most profound joy. Suddenly, all the work we did preparing them for life has paid off and they don't need us anymore, at least not the way it was before. I also tell young parents to cherish these years, because they will vanish all too soon. Then they begin to have kids of their own, and suddenly, our lives are full again. We have someone new to worry about, to spoil, to think about day after day. But more important, we now have a new set of young lives that we can try to shape and direct, to help them avoid the awful decisions that made such a hash of our own hopes and dreams. I want them to have happy lives. I want them to be fulfilled in whatever they do. I want them to have challenges, and learn how to rise above them. I want all of their dreams to come true.
And I want them to know how deeply, how completely, how joyfully they are loved, today and forever.
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