The joy of being a grandparent
is seeing love come full circle—
holding in my arms
the child of my child,
and feeling my heart expand again.
It’s laughter spilling through the house,
tiny hands tugging mine,
storybooks read by the dozen,
and cookies stolen warm from the tray
when I pretend not to see.
It’s rocking chairs and whispered prayers,
bedtime songs sung soft and slow,
knowing I can spoil a little,
and send them home
with pockets full of candy and love.
It’s watching my grown children
find their way as parents—
seeing in their eyes
the same wonder I once carried,
the same exhaustion, too.
It’s the gift of time—
of slowing down enough to savor,
to notice the way curls fall across a cheek,
or how a giggle erupts so freely
at the simplest surprise.
The joy of being a grandparent
is knowing life does not end with me—
it blooms again and again,
each branch a reminder
of the roots we planted long ago.
It’s a legacy written not in riches,
but in lullabies, scraped knees kissed,
and love tucked into every generation
like a quilt stitched by faithful hands.
And if you ask me what joy is,
I will point here—
to the swing set in the yard,
to the handprints on my windows,
to the voices that call me by name.
The joy of being a grandparent
is both ordinary and holy—
a glimpse of heaven on earth,
a circle of love that never ends,
a gift I thank God for every day.
