Tradition. That’s why Ezra, aged six years and eight hours, sits at our table, eying his breakfast: a vast bowl of Neapolitan ice cream. He chose that yesterday in the store, over my suggestions of more sophisticated options. “How about maple walnut? Black cherry? Rocky road?” But, no. He had …
Was it the pandemic’s second or third wave? I can’t recall. But the doorbell rang at supper. I answered it and found a grandchild, standing alone, tears streaming like silver ribbons. Our daughter’s car waited at the end of the driveway. COVID protocol aside, what else is a grandmother to …
“Nana,” my youngest grandbean started, as he, his sister and I sat enjoying lunch together. He followed that with a question that stopped my fork mid-air. My mind flew back to the day before, to a matter I thought finished. But clearly, the little chap had a cog blocking one …
I sometimes use a heavy clay pot as a doorstop. A pot full of hearts. “Hey, Nana, here’s another one!” The grandbeans offer their outstretched hands, fingers curled around the latest treasure. A heart of stone. Another one for our collection. We’ve found them on walks, the children and I, …
I spouted a mouthful of fake news at lunch the other day. To the grandchildren, no less. With a federal election pending, it seemed natural that the discussion around our table turned to politics. “Nana,” asked one of the children asked, “does God discipline bad kings?” “Well,” I said, “When …
“The reason grandchildren get along so well with their grandparents,” I heard someone say, tongue firmly planted in cheek, “is that they have a common enemy.” Our six live about an hour from us. Fortunately, on (almost) all things, the Preacher and I and their parents agree. We feel blessed …
I’ve written about faith and life, home, friends and family in this column for a generation now. Through these five hundred words a week, loyal readers have watched my family (and pets) change and grow. Our daughter has been and done many remarkable things over those years. God arranged that …
In the spring of 1988, my then seven-year-old daughter Amanda and I visited a monastery on a hilltop near Orangeville, Ontario. A short visit, but I recall it clearly with both amazement and regret. I wish I’d asked more questions of the person we’d come to see. I would never …
“Two raspberry smoothies coming right up. Time for the berries now, little man.” “I not a widow man,” said the tyke on the tall stool beside me, dumping them in the blender. “I’s Ezwa! I WIKE kitchens!” He’s towheaded, three and unstoppable, our youngest grandbean, Ezra. And he just had …
Like the sweeping arc of a lighthouse beam, illuminating, for one glorious moment, some unutterably lovely scene, a beautiful season of life will soon end for our family. Our six grandbeans can no more race the three hundred steps between their parsonage and our home, the shortest legs pumping …
