Seventeen Years . . . And Counting?

It’s coming again . . . my favorite time of the year. For seventeen years now our grandchildren have come to our house for Cousin Week. At first, just three, all in diapers. And each summer we kept adding.

In the early years, we pulled them in wagons and pushed them on swings and changed their diapers and read them stories. They spilled milk and lost pacifiers and skinned knees. They begged to be carried and fought over the favorite red ball.

At naptime, they recharged and we regrouped. And then we’d start over again.

Now, many of them could carry me. And we’re dealing with cars, not tricycles; with sports injuries, not skinned knees; with sinks full of dishes from late-night snacks, not spilled milk. They lose phones instead of pacifiers and discuss the origins of the universe instead of fighting over the favorite red ball. Now we camp and kayak and bowl and ride the bike path and stay up until all hours and sleep the morning away. And eat and eat and eat.

“Are the grandkids coming?” my favorite clerk at Kroger asks.

She knows.

But what I like more than all the things we do together, is that they still come to us, these young people, just beginning to spread their wings. They won’t keep coming, not like this. Their wings will take them other places—to schools and jobs and relationships. They’ll be going on, to make their lives.

But this year, they’re coming, all of them.

Back in our day, we sang these nostalgic lyrics: 

   We have this moment to hold in our hands
	And to touch as it slips through our fingers like sand. . .
	We have this moment today.

Being a grandma, I’m permitted this sentimentality.  

But being a grandma, I also applaud their futures, when our house will no longer be a week-long haven every summer. When, instead, they’ll be out there, somewhere, creating havens for others. And we’ll be watching and praying.