On Becoming a Grandmother

In the quiet, cold stillness of this 5 a.m. first of December, in the cusp of new life, lies the gift of stepping into a steady, perpetual presentness of God’s grace. 

All of the learning, the hard-won, “wish that I knew what I know now, when I was younger,” can now bear fruit in the older with the younger, the Grandmother and the Grandson. 

That complex, simple grace—so pure it takes half a lifetime to even begin to fathom—marks and plants the fresh bloom of being that today holds entrance into all of the goodness and wonder of the years already lived, and those yet to come.

It is a grace that breathes at all times:

In response.

In perception. 

In giving no mind to that which no mind, or heart, need fret over. 

In loving and being that love—not sentimentally or self-centeredly—but in grace. 

His grace, which forges:

Goodness.

Strength.

Trust. 

Realistic hope.

Lightness of heart.

Joy, playfulness and innocence unperturbed and not distracted by out-of-line factors and persons.

And forgiveness of the kind that doesn’t take offense to begin with.

In this birth of the younger and the older, grace culminates. 

God has made what He began so long ago, beautiful in its time. 

His good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, is poured into my lap. 

This first day, today, of the older and the younger.

Indeed, He does make all things new. 

Copyright Barb Harwood