Welcome home,” our son-in-law, John, greeted us with a wry grin.
Lori and I had arrived home exhausted, having driven the 900-mile trip from Oklahoma to visit family. While we were gone, our other “little family” —daughter Madi, son-in-law John, and their three kiddos, Eli (13), Emmie (8), and Noah (2 )—had moved temporarily in with us until their house was ready for them, a period estimated to be 2-3 weeks.
Tripping over their belongings as I carried in our luggage, I thought, “Well, it’s only 2-3 weeks.”
Alas, the 2-3 weeks turned into 4 months as (imagine that) their house wasn’t ready as soon as estimated.
My space was invaded. My time alone vanished. My focus was blurred. Kids, the youngest of whom was prone to those typical two-year-old whines, ran roughshod, or so it seemed, through the house. They scuffled; they scuttled; they squealed. And their Golden Doodle (size: extra-large) barked at the neighbors and scared delivery people.
And in the process, something amazing happened.
We got used to it. And embraced the change.
We had meals around the table, with prayers followed by family stories garnished with frequent giggles. We celebrated special days like Father’s Day, the 4th of July, Eli’s 13th birthday, Emmie’s recognition in school, Noah’s potty-training and “Farewell of the Pacifier Day” (a special event marked by weeping and wailing), popcorn and games on Sunday nights, Madi’s workouts with Lori, and John’s joining me in watching college football games. And good ol’ Kobie, the once-annoying Golden Doodle, became my study buddy, sitting silently at my side while I worked, our canine-human bond solidified by my spoiling him with an abundance of dog treats, his reward for letting me walk him.
I told them they might as well stay; we could be like the Amish families who build onto their existing houses to accommodate their large families rather than moving out. “Save yourself that house loan,” I beckoned, “move in with us. You’ve got plenty of room upstairs,” I teased, knowing they were as anxious for their own place as we were ours.
Then the time came. And Lori and I were surprised by our own emotions: sad and happy at once. But their house was ready, and so we helped them move their belongings from our house to theirs.
I played Phil Collins’ “One More Night,” as I jokingly beckoned them not to leave just yet.
Later that night, I walked upstairs to their “suite.” A loud silence filled the rooms where Emmie once played with her baby dolls, Eli shouted to his friends on his video games, and Noah would call for Momma.
Then, walking back downstairs, I sat on the couch, staring into space as if I suddenly didn’t know what to do. As Lori joined me, I noticed tears welling up in her eyes. “You’re crying,” I said, as if she didn’t know it. To which she responded, “It’s so empty.”
For these four months, our house had been overflowing with activity. Though we longed for our accustomed privacy, our family had energized us, too, reminding us of the days when our four kids romped through the house. But we were the grandparents now, and when the kids misbehaved, it wasn’t up to us to discipline. We could relax and take it in with less responsibility.
I thought of Psalm 113, which speaks of the Lord giving “joy” to the parents of children. That would include grandparents, I would think.
“We will remember this time,” Lori said, “But I wonder if anything we did will stay with the kids; I wonder if they’ll miss us, too.”
At that very moment, her cell phone rang.
It was Eli.
“I just wanted to tell you, ‘good night,’ Gigi, I miss you.”
“Yes, the Lord works in mysterious ways, ‘his wonders to perform’,” I thought as I gently grasped Lori’s hand, embracing the quiet, relishing our time together, content that we had been both faithful parents and grandparents, at peace with being who we are, where we’re supposed to be.