The Rest of the Story

Home is the place where, when you go there, they have to take you in.

Robert Frost

Son #2 died 17 years ago from the complications of a lifetime of drug addiction. Last Friday, I watched his son graduate from college. I’m pretty sure my son was looking down from Heaven. And smiling.

My grandson’s a big guy—6’ 4” (or taller? I haven’t checked for a while), and he was a member of the Southern Utah University football team, so he can “leap tall buildings in a single bound!” (For you folks younger than six or seven decades, that was the slogan for the old black and white Superman TV show.) Graduation was one of those sunny, but windy days typical of Southern Utah. We took a picture of my grandson in his cap and gown standing next to a statue of Thomas Jefferson. I had to turn away to hide the tears in my eyes.

I clearly remembered when he was about 12 years old, and I had driven across town to watch him play ball with a rec sports team program. He was racing down the field with the ball, knocking aside would-be tacklers as he went. Unbidden, tears had washed down my face at the realization that his dad would never see him play. I’d had to leave the game to weep alone in my car.

My grandson came to live with us years ago when my daughter-in-law called one afternoon for help. Her son had had a pretty serious confrontation with her current boyfriend, and since my grandson—then a sophomore in high school–was at least 6 inches taller and out-weighed the boyfriend by 50 pounds, she was worried that if the disagreement escalated, her son might literally beat the crap out of her boyfriend. Could I pick her son up after school and let him stay at my house overnight to “cool down”?

“Sure,” I said. “No problem.” When he climbed into my car, I told him he was welcome to stay until he and the boyfriend could resolve some of their issues. At the time, we had no long-range plans. One day just slipped into the next, and though he has an apartment and a job in Cedar City, his football jerseys hang on the walls of his room downstairs. He chose to never leave. As we celebrated his graduation at a fancy Italian restaurant not far from the SUU campus, he was talking about graduate school.

In case you think this currently happy ending was a whole series of pieces that just fell nicely into place at every turn, it was not. My husband and I are old. And tired. Son #6 will tell you that by the time he was in high school, we were worn out having raised seven kids already. He likes to say he “raised himself and did a damn good job of it”. He may not have been particularly humble, but he was right. His older siblings saw to it that he met curfew. If he happened to be late, one of them would wake us up and let us know. Mostly, he just followed the pattern his brothers and sisters had set–show up at school, do your homework, take responsibility for your mistakes, plan a future, and work at loving your family.

So when my grandson came to live at my house, something I couldn’t have imagined happened. My adult children stepped up. Sons #s 1 and 5 checked on him every week or so from Boise and Phoenix. They quietly Venmo’d him money when his Pell grant didn’t cover all his school expenses. They spent hours on the phone with him over the years, helping him figure out what career he was really interested in, how to navigate relationships, and where the best fishing in Utah might be found.

Daughter #1 handled all his organizational problems, from guiding his class registration so that it would lead to graduation, to occasionally helping him write thoughtful papers for his favorite psychology courses, and seeing to it that his physical and emotional needs were met. Son #3 was always available on the phone to give emergency medical advice or provide a Sunday dinner (he lives in a nearby city) on days when my grandson needed company.

Daughter #2 (whose two sons, together with this grandson, could eat enough food to feed the rest of the entire extended family!) walked him through difficult concepts in his health and science classes, ignored the noise in her basement when the boys (and her husband) were watching BYU football or basketball games, and had my grandson laughing when everyday problems made his life seem bleak.

Sons #4 and 6 taught him computer skills (lots and lots of them) and made sure he knew how to do car maintenance and household repair. Plus, their examples showed him how good fathers love, care for, and appreciate children–a gift he will value his whole life.

But, of course, raising a person is not easy because growing up is hard, no matter how much support you are fortunate enough to have. Being human leaves us open to the foibles of a fragile body–illness (both mental and physical, like my grandson’s father), accident, disaster, heartbreak, betrayal, loneliness, and sometimes genuine lifelong miseries over which we have little control–to name just a few.  But seeing my grandson holding a diploma and standing in front of the statue of Thomas Jefferson gives me hope for his future. And it reminds me how blessed I am to be able to see it unfold.