Hey Everybody,
Here are some pictures from NQC… this is the #1 party….. our WALKING THE GOOD ROAD event…. and dinner in Nashville with the former members of Jimmy Swaggart Crusade Team.
#1 Party at NQC
We love you!!
Janet
My sister and I think it slightly unjust that our parents do not have a houseful of grandchildren. Their capacity for loving and nurturing far exceeds the needs of the lone, single son of my sister. While I have brought into their lives a puppy who fully believes he is human, there exist distinct limitations when compared to the possibilities of watching a young boy become a man. Perhaps it is because they have only one opportunity to participate in the great event of grandparenting that they do it so well.
When my nephew, Benjamin, was small, my dad bought for him a toy guitar so that he could play along with his own sweet, mellow Gibson. They sat for hours playing and singing songs. Their repertoire was built on gospel standards like, Victory in Jesus, Blessed Assurance, and Bless That Wonderful Name. However, if I know my dad, he would have made certain that some George Jones material was in the mix, as well.
When my nephew failed to crawl right away, dad repeatedly sank to the floor to ‘show’ him how much more advantageous that method of movement. When he played T-Ball, dad never missed a game, never missed a pitch. The first morning Benjamin mounted the steps of a yellow school bus, my dad cried.
Benjamin rode atop dad’s red tractor when it was time to plow the garden; he rode inside the metal wheelbarrow when there were vegetables to transport. Dad rigged a hitch from his riding mower to Benjamin’s red wagon and all summer long they mowed decreasing circles around the property.
My nephew always possessed an amazing capacity for memorization. As a child, he and dad watched favorite episodes of Laurel and Hardy or The Three Stooges and re-enacted them afterwards. They exchanged roles from time to time, with Benjamin providing scripts. For us, these versions were often funnier than Stan and Ollie’s originals.
The morning Benjamin stepped onto the stage of Elon University with a Magna Cum Laude honor sash, my dad, again, cried. We suspected that his emotions were more closely tied to wheelbarrows than academics.
This past March we celebrated Benjamin’s 28th birthday at a local restaurant. He received cards from all of us and, as usual, my parents added a personal sentiment to theirs. Dad’s spelling has never been stellar, nor his grammar up to par, but he, almost 77 years old, wrote,
“Ben-Ben, I wish we could play Laurel and Hardy again and I
will be the little one and you can be the big one. I enjoyed playing
when you were little. I love you very, very much and God bless you
all through your life.”
Benjamin never had to do anything to earn my dad’s love; it just was. It never depended on his achievements or abilities, or whether it was reciprocated. He could not have stepped out of the sphere of my dad’s affection if he had tried. That’s the beauty of love – it is determined not by the one who receives it, but by the one who gives it.
So the next time you are driving in the country, and you happen to see a child in the wake of a riding lawn mower or balanced in a wheelbarrow full of freshly picked corn, be sure to take a good look. You will be witnessing some of the best moments of the child’s life – and the grandparent’s, too.
Janet
ParPar and Benjamin
