My calendar says that yesterday was Grandparents’ Day.
Both of my paternal grandparents died before
I turned seven, so I didn’t know them well. I mostly remember the cookies in
Grandma Page’s cookie jar. Even so, I loved to hear my father’s stories about
growing up with his parents, and I cherish this photograph of my older brother
and me with them in the front room of their Fruitport, Michigan home.
I have more memories of my maternal grandparents.
They lived on the Iowa farm where my mother had grown up and, although it was
several hours away, we visited as often as we could. No matter how late we
arrived, Grandma Wagner always had food on the table. She had long hair that I
loved to comb, but she criticized the length of my bangs and claimed that I
would lose my eyesight because of it. Grandpa was the stereotypical farmer and
spent much of his time outside long after he had “retired” and turned most of
the farming operations over to my Uncle Wyman. Grandpa also enjoyed photography,
and we spent many pleasant hours looking through his pictures.
Grandma Wagner died when I was in college. Then
Grandpa moved to Arkansas to live with my Aunt Phyllis and I didn’t see him as
often.
I was fortunate in both sets of grandparents,
but I appreciate them most for modeling their Christian faith to my parents,
who in turn modeled it to me.
And I will be forever grateful.
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