Nancy Farmer Facebook ad: “If you have a grandchild, read this”

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I'm 68 years old. Last week I went to a funeral. She was 84. Her grandson gave the eulogy. He was 22, home from college, and he cried. Real tears. He told stories for twenty minutes. He said she shaped who he became. And I thought: I still have time. Justin is only 10. I could still become that for him. If I stop wasting time. I didn't know Dorothy well. We went to the same church. We were on a committee together years ago. We sometimes smiled and chatted in the fellowship hall. But we weren't close. So when I heard she'd passed, 84 years old, peaceful, surrounded by family, I almost didn't go to the funeral. But something made me. The church was packed. Four children. Eleven grandchildren. Even a couple of great-grands. I sat in the back. The service was lovely. Our pastor spoke. A daughter read a poem. And then her grandson, Michael, stood up. He was 22. Home from college. Tall kid. Confident. He walked to the podium, pulled out a folded piece of paper, looked at it for a moment, then put it down. "I was going to read what I wrote," he said. "But I think I just need to tell you about my grandma." And then he started crying. Not polite funeral tears. Real tears. The kind you cry when you've actually lost someone who mattered. He told stories: About how every Sunday after church, she'd take him to a diner and let him order chocolate chip pancakes even though his mom wasn’t crazy about it. About how she taught him to play chess when he was seven, and they played almost every single week until he left for college. About how she was the first person he called when he got accepted to MIT. Not his parents. Her. About how she wrote him a letter every single week of his freshman year. Handwritten. Real stationery. And he kept every one of them in a box under his bed. About how last Thanksgiving, when he was stressed about finals, she pulled him aside and said, "Michael, twenty years from now, no one will care what grade you got in Organic Chemistry. But they'll care what kind of man you became. And I already know the answer to that." His voice broke. "Grandma didn't just love me. She knew me. She knew what I cared about. She knew what scared me. She knew who I was trying to become. And she made me believe I could get there." He paused. "When I think about who I am today, the fact that I'm at MIT, the fact that I want to be an engineer, the fact that I believe I can do hard things, it all traces back to Sunday pancakes and chess games and handwritten letters. It all traces back to a grandma who didn't just show up. She stayed." He looked at her casket. "I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to make you proud. And I know you will be. Because you always were." The whole church was crying. Including me. But not because Dorothy was gone. Because I was watching what a real grandparent-grandchild relationship looked like. And realizing I don't have that. Not even close. After the funeral, I couldn't stop thinking about Michael. He was 22. Dorothy had been his grandmother for 22 years. But the relationship he described, the chess games, the diner trips, the letters, the phone calls, those didn't happen by accident. She built that. Week by week. Year by year. Chess game by chess game. She showed up. And she stayed. And when she died, her grandson didn't struggle to think of what to say. He had twenty minutes of stories. Twenty minutes of specific moments where she shaped who he became. I drove home and sat in my driveway. Justin is 10. I'm 68. Dorothy lived to 84. If I live as long as she did, I have sixteen more years. Sixteen years of Thursdays. Sixteen years of phone calls. Sixteen years of birthday gifts. Sixteen years to become someone Justin actually knows. Or sixteen years of five minute phone calls about nothing. Sixteen years of gifts he forgets about. Sixteen years of being the name on the family tree instead of the person who shaped who he became. Right now, I'm on the second path. And if I don't change it, in sixteen years, or six years, or whenever God decides my time is up, Justin won't stand at my funeral and cry real tears. He'll stand up and say: "My grandma was nice. She lived far away. She called sometimes. I didn't really know her." And everyone will nod politely. But nobody will cry. Because you can't miss someone you never really knew. That night, I called my sister. I told her about the funeral. About Michael's eulogy. About Dorothy's chess games and letters and Sunday pancakes. "I want that," I said. "I want Justin to know me. Really know me. Not just 'my grandma lives in Texas.' I want to be someone who shaped who he becomes." "Then you need to start now," she said. "I've been trying…” "No, you've been calling on schedule and sending gifts he doesn't want. That's not knowing someone. That's going through the motions." That stung. "So what do I do?" "Find your chess game. Find your Sunday pancakes. Find the thing that makes him want to spend time with you." "Like what?" "I told you about Daniel and those books. Spectacular Stories. We talk about them three times a week now. Last week he told his mom, 'Grandma Linda gets me.' Those were his exact words. "'She gets me.'" "How do books make him feel like you get him?" "Because they're not about what I think he should read. They're about what he actually wants to read. True stories about kids doing impossible things. Two orphan boys who were friends who both grew up to be state governors. Some boys fighting off a grizzly bear. A treasure hunting kid who helped solve a 300 year old shipwreck mystery. It's wild and weird and exactly the kind of stuff a 10-year-old thinks is cool." "And he actually calls you about them?" "Called me yesterday at 8 PM. Said, 'Grandma, I just read about a pigeon that saved 194 people in World War I and you're not going to BELIEVE this.' He wasn't calling because I made him. He was calling because he had to tell someone and I'm the person he wanted to tell." I sat with that. "I'm the person he wanted to tell." That's what I want. I want to be the person Justin thinks of when something exciting happens. Not out of obligation. By choice. I ordered the books that night. When I shipped them, I included a note: "Justin - I'm 68 years old. I don't know how many more years I have with you. But I want the ones I have to matter. I want to actually know you. And I want you to actually know me. Maybe these will help. Let’s have some fun together. Love, Grandma" I didn't expect anything. But four days later, 9:04 PM, my phone rang. Justin. "Grandma! Are you still awake?" My heart jumped. He wanted to make sure I was awake. Like he was worried he'd miss me. "Yes, sweetie! What's up?" "Okay, so I just read this story about blimps used to be made out of sausages and I'm FREAKING OUT because it's the funniest thing I've ever heard…” And then he told me about the blimps. For ten minutes straight. Talking so fast I could barely keep up. So excited he kept interrupting himself. We talked for thirty-eight minutes total. About blimps and tsunamis and whether he could survive some of the crazy stories that he’d read. And when we finally hung up because it was past 10 and he had school, he said: "Grandma? Can I call you this weekend? There's like fifty more stories in this book and I want to tell you about all of them." "I would absolutely love that." After we hung up, I thought about Dorothy. She had 22 years with Michael. I might have sixteen with Justin. Or ten. Or five. I don't know. But I know this: I just had my first real conversation with my grandson. And if I died tomorrow, he'd have one story to tell. But I'm not dying tomorrow. I have time. Time to build more stories. Time to become someone he actually knows. Time to be his person. Last week, Justin called me. Not Thursday. Tuesday. "Grandma? I know it's not our normal day, but I just finished the sports book and I have to tell you about a monkey who used to race NASCAR. His name was Jocko Flocko!” "I'm listening…” We talked for half an hour. And halfway through, I realized: We have our thing now. It's not chess. It's not Sunday pancakes. It's these books and these phone calls and these stories. It's ours. And it's building something Dorothy spent 22 years building with Michael. I'm 68. Justin is 10. I still have time. Time to write him letters. Time to learn what he cares about. Time to show up and stay. Time to become someone who shapes who he becomes. Dorothy started when Michael was born. I'm starting when Justin is 10. That's okay. Because starting late is better than never starting at all. If you're my age... If you've been going through the motions... If you want to be remembered for more than birthday checks... You still have time. But not forever. Start now. P.S. — This morning, Justin's mom texted me: "I don't know what happened, but Justin asked if you could come visit for his birthday this year. He said he wants to show you his book collection and talk about the stories in person." He's never asked for me to visit. Because I was never someone worth visiting. Now I am. Dorothy had 22 years. I might have sixteen. I'm not wasting another one.

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bigdreamskidsbooks.com

If you have a grandchild, read this ☝️