This weekend we gathered to celebrate Jim’s dad, my father-in-law. There is something both heavy and reverent about memorial services. The ache of loss sits right alongside the quiet gratitude of a life well lived. But what struck me most wasn’t only the stories told by siblings and friends. It was hearing our children’s memories of their grandfather.

Sometimes it takes losing someone to fully understand the role they played in shaping us.

Willem shared how Grandpa may not have even realized he was the one who sparked his love of water and fishing, a love that has now led him to become a fly fishing guide in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Behind grandpa’s house was a small stocked lake. Whenever we visited, Willem would wander down there, looking for frogs along the edge, casting a line beside his dad and grandpa. It didn’t matter whether anything was caught. What mattered was being there.

That’s what grandparents so often give . . . presence without pressure. Time without agenda.

Our daughter, Gretchen, remembered something different . . . ice cream runs straight from school, mall trips where she could choose a small trinket, riding the carousel without hesitation. She described sunshine, laughter, and the smell of Grandma’s cooking. After Grandma passed, Monday night dinners with Grandpa continued; his favorite baroque music played softly in the background while stories unfolded about his childhood, his travels, his work, and what he understood about the world.

Those evenings weren’t excessive. They were simple. Consistent. Meaningful in their own way. And that’s what grandparents do. They create memories that feel ordinary at the time . . . sitting by a lake, driving a minivan, eating dinner on a Monday night. But years later, those moments become anchors. They become beginnings. They become the reason a young man builds a life around rivers, or a young woman feels deeply rooted in family.

As parents, we are often caught up in the busyness of schedules and responsibilities. Grandparents step into a different rhythm. They have already lived the urgency. They know that what matters most is not catching the fish; it’s standing beside the child while the line is in the water.

Listening to our children honor their grandfather reminded me of something profound: relationships between grandparents and grandchildren are not secondary. They are formative. They are identity-shaping.

Sometimes it takes a loss to help us see the fullness of that gift.

This weekend was filled with tears, yes. But it was also filled with gratitude. Gratitude that our children had enough time. Enough Monday nights. Enough afternoons by the lake. Enough stories to tell.

Grandparents give our children roots and sometimes wings without even realizing they are doing it.

And what a gift that is.