Children’s children are a crown to the aged.
I remember my grandmother kneading dough, green beans simmering on the stove nearby. I’d stand on the stepstool so I could watch her hands lovingly shape the dough into biscuits. We’d talk about little girl things—butterflies and pigtails and the pony I wanted. Now, standing in my kitchen, my hands move the dough of the bread I’m making, and I’m overcome with wishing I’d known then what a gift it was to watch her hands—what a gift it was to be her granddaughter.
I looked out the window, my head swimming with such poignant memories that it took a moment for me to feel God’s hand on my shoulder.
“I miss her,” I said. “There are so many things I wish I’d asked her. But the time went by so quickly. I was a little girl, then a busy wife and mother, and then she was gone.”
“She loved you,” God said tenderly.
“I loved her, too. Tell her when I see her again that I’ll sit down with her and get to know her better. Will you do that for me, please?” I asked.
“She already knows,” God replied. He hugged me, and I got back to kneading my bread, looking out on another gray morning, this one filled with longing and gratitude.