The Best Thing you can do for your Children

In this very moving post, Barbara Challies (mother of blogger Tim Challies) contrasts the wonderful rich grandfather who adored her, and was generous, with the poor grandfather who had few material things to share with her, but faithfully prayed for her, with a face radiant from being in the presence of God.

I have taken the liberty of excerpting a few paragraphs, and it as redoubled my determination to pray much for my children. I have heard it said that no one is so poor as he who has no one to pray for him.

My mother's father, “Doda,” was the joy of my heart when I was a child. Through hard work, he became prosperous and determined, early on, that he would buy the local senator's house one day. And that is what he did. That is the home where I spent a month of each summer during my childhood and many Christmases, as well.  

When we visited, it was Doda who cooked for us, cared for us, and loved us. And his love was expressive. He bounced us on his knee, sang to us, and proudly took us into town to meet his friends. We could not have asked for a better grandfather—except for one thing. Doda was not a believer. So, I can say with all sincerity, and much gratitude, based on those few weeks each year, “Doda, you won my heart.”

My father's father was much different. He was an Anglican clergyman. We saw Grandmother and Grandfather only once each year, for two or three days. By that time, Grandfather had become profoundly deaf, so it was impossible for a little girl to get to know him directly. Because he couldn’t hear, he could not converse with us, but every time he caught our eye he would smile and his face shone. It glowed.

What would give him a shiny face? I did not know, and no one could tell me. He was a mystery to me. He could not talk with us; he had no provision for “spoiling” us. Because of the circumstances, there was no real relationship between us. Still, what Grandfather could do for us, I understood he did. He prayed for us.

Each Saturday afternoon of every visit we had with him, Grandfather had us sit around him while he read prayers from his Book of Common Prayer. That was the only time I heard his voice. He prayed for us all by name, one by one. We were not a praying family. It was awkward, somewhat embarrassing, but—to me—mysterious and moving. My grandfather was committing me to his God.

Years later, I became a Christian. It seemed a “Melchizedekian” conversion—out of nowhere. But then I remembered Grandfather's shiny face and his prayers. At last I understood. His face had reflected the same glory that Moses' had—the surpassing glory of the One he served. And his prayers—those liturgical, but heartfelt prayers—had been heard. “Doda, you won my heart, but Grandfather won my soul.”

And so I understand that this “least of all grandfathers” who had relatively little, financially; who could not share his faith with us; who could not even get to know us, had the greater impact on me for both time and eternity. What he did have—the continuing ability to pray for me—was the greater bequest.