Our grandparent, who art in heaven: a new grandmother discovers a new way to pray to God.

I have loved every step of parenting. When our first child was born, I was afraid to have another, afraid I would never be able to love another baby as much as I loved our son. My daughters taught me just how wrong I was, and together my children all taught me the sacredness of parenting.

And though my children may have taught me who I am and who I am called to be, nothing prepared me for grandparenting.

Grandparenting is teaching me who God is.

Katherine Emily is our first grandchild, the daughter of our older daughter. She was born on Dec. 8, 2001, less than three months after the September 11 terrorist attack. I was still paralyzed by post-traumatic shock. I had not lost family or close friends or even income in the attack. But I had lost my neighbor's children, my children's friends, my faith in my own significance, and, most importantly, my belief--not in God but in a God who cared, a God to whom any of us actually mattered.

Enter Katherine Emily.

It was a gray, dismal evening when our granddaughter arrived. The rain, which had threatened all day, had settled into a freezing drizzle. I was so unfamiliar with this whole grandparenting process I had not even known we could go to the hospital until my younger daughter insisted. She would be helping to deliver the baby. Of course her dad and I would want to be there to welcome this little one. Of course the hospital would let us.

And so I stood at the window in the family lounge of the hospital feeling useless and strange, my ears bombarded with the cacophony of the birthing floor. The cries of newborns mixed with the sounds of our daughter's voice counting loudly from the nearby room where she coached her big sister through labor.

At 9:06 p.m., one distinct small cry made my heart stop beating and I turned to the others in the room and announced, "She's here." A wary skepticism greeted my quiet proclamation. "How could you know, with all this noise?" "Somebody note the time. We'll check when Steve comes to tell us."

I did not need my son-in-law to confirm the time for us; my heart knew. At the sound of her voice, I had felt the universe shift. Outside, the rain had turned to snow and the street lamps lit up silvery white lawns.

I had not anticipated being so deeply moved. It had been a long and difficult pregnancy for my daughter. The morning sickness had lingered throughout the days, then stretched to fill the entire nine months. I had held my daughter in my arms countless times as the nausea and vomiting left her tearfully committed to never having another child. Too many people had told her it would all be forgotten in the joy of the baby; it just didn't matter in the pain of the moment.

As I stood quietly by the hospital window, I realized that now I knew what it felt like to be God, to watch your child suffer, to know that the only way out of the suffering would be to destroy the new life it heralds. Sometimes we have to hold on in the pain and wait for the joy.

Grandparenting is a very different experience from parenting. It is not, as many say, because you can send them home when they get difficult. It is much more that you can intervene when they get difficult. That you can be there in a way beyond the normal course of parenting, a way not required or expected, a way that is sheer gift. Grace.

Our grandchildren may exist because of us, but it is the work of our own children to care for them. And our children do this with all the same expectations, concerns, worries, and hopes that once filled our own parenting of them.

As grandparents, our only concerns are for the health and happiness of this baby. There are no expectations of all this child can be, no wondering if the milestones are on time, if the weight and length are within the right percentiles, no financial exigencies. The worries and dreams that were so much a part of our parenting melt in the sun of grandparenting. There is nothing left but delight in this new little human being.

And so I am left wondering if perhaps God is more grandparent than parent. Our very being is rooted in God, but God has entrusted us to others, God's own children, to be nurtured and raised. I can't help suspecting that the delight I find in this little one, no matter what she does or who she becomes, is the same unconditional and overwhelming love with which God showers me. Someone must have taught me how to feel this way.

Dark night

Today, my daughter's maternity leave ended. My granddaughter weeps inconsolably for her mother. It is not the distinct wail of hunger, the angry cry of discomfort, the petulant cry of boredom, all of which I have come to know.

This is a cry of infinite sadness, and her little eyes have become swollen from the incessant tears. She will not take the bottle I offer. She wants her mother's breast. She will not nap, although exhaustion makes her body limp. I can do nothing but hold her in my arms and rock her with lullabies.

She refuses to be comforted. She is oblivious to my love, and my own tears of frustration and pain fall on her face and blanket. How can she feel so abandoned and alone when she is cradled in such love?

Do you hold me, Grandparent God, in those darkest moments, those moments when I feel abandoned and alone? Are you cradling me in your arms, whispering soothing lullabies I refuse to hear, offering nourishment I cannot bear to accept?

Let me be content in knowing you are there. Help me to be content in being there for this heartbroken baby.

Time

I am getting nothing done. As long as this baby is in the house, time stands still. When she is awake, I want to play with her, read to her, sing to her. When she is sleeping, I sit and watch her.

Grandparent God, do you gaze on me with the same delight that overpowers me in the presence of this little one? Do you waste whole days because you love me so much you can't take your eyes off me?

Blessed mess

My home is becoming an obstacle course. There is a high chair in the small dining room, a crib in the kitchen with the same mobile my granddaughter has at home. There are diapers and toys, bottles and bowls, the baby tub and changing table tripping us up at every turn. All so that my granddaughter will feel more at home in this place that is not her home, reminders of her own mom and dad, her own particular space in the universe, while she is away.

Do you "litter" my world, Grandparent God, with reminders of you, of my real home? Is it all to make me comfortable in the space I share for a little while?

Indulgent grandparent that you are, I stumble across your love at every turn.

Lullaby time

We rock in the big blue rocking chair, her blue-gray eyes gazing deeply into mine, as I sing the lullabies my mother once sang, ancient mother-prayers steeped in earth wisdom.

Holding my gaze, she begins to sing, a wordless harmony, matching my silences with her own rests, my melodies with her own variations.

Song after song, she gently gives voice to the love that holds us both captive, until the little eyes droop in sleep.

Do you sing to me, Grandparent God, accepting the wordless prayers I try to voice, the melody I have yet to master, with the same enchanted love that has taken possession of my soul?

Katie's nap

I sit quietly on the piano bench, watching my granddaughter awaken from her nap. Her eyes slide open just enough to reveal a tiny slice of gray blue sky. Miniature fingers flex gently as rapid eye movements begin to be visible beneath her translucent eyelids. Her little legs, deeply creased with baby fat, give a couple of involuntary movements, but still the eyes remain partially closed.

Do you sit by my side, Grandparent God, waiting, as I wander in and out of my own dreams, oblivious to your presence? Do you watch me sleep with such love that it makes your heart burst?

Have I ever acquired the gentle, graceful movement toward prayer that this little one has toward wakefulness?

Her eyes flutter open, and she lies still as she takes in her surroundings. Soon her visual journey brings her to me, as I sit waiting, and her entire face explodes in smiles. Her little arms, not quite ready for focused movement, dance a wild invitation to be picked up, as her feet and legs join in her chaotic rhythm.

O God, to welcome the awareness of your presence with such joyful abandon and trust! Grandparent God, delight in me, love me, let me move your heart and change your world as this child has changed mine.

Bubbles

Today we discovered bubbles. As I breathed life into the transparent soap film, my granddaughter's eyes grew wide with wonder. The Philadelphia Philharmonic filled the backyard with Beethoven, while the family of house finches that had nested on the outside speaker added their voices. It was a fitting accompaniment to my granddaughter's laughter, a suitable symphony to give voice to the amazement on her little face.

A fickle breeze carried the bubbles back to us as she bounced on my lap, gurgling and reaching for the rainbows that floated by her face. Each time she caught one, she pulled back in surprise at the unexpected disappearance of the fragile ball and the sudden wetness on her hand. Each time she reached for the wand, wanting more, wanting them faster, making it difficult to make any bubbles at all.

Grandparent God, are you breathing life into my two-dimensional world, creating the rainbows, revealing your light? Give me the patience to trust you with the wand, at least until I am old enough to understand that everything isn't for consumption.

"Up!"

The gesture came as Katie tired of playing on the floor with her toys. She cannot quite make it to a sitting position on her own, and rolling over had grown frustrating.

As I leaned over the blanket to speak to her, she surprised me, raising both her arms up directly toward me, lifting her head, and cooing, almost growling, as forcefully as she could manage. "Up?" I questioned. The legs danced and then became rigid as she tried to lift herself by sheer force of will.

Real communication! I swooped her up off the floor and held her close, making sure she knew someone was listening to these new words. She nuzzled deep into my neck, planting wet, open-mouth kisses on my chest and face, letting me know I had indeed gotten the message right.

Is all prayer simply the effort to communicate? We were once taught that prayer is lifting the mind and heart to God. What they forgot to tell us is that it is you, Grandparent God, who does the lifting.

K-K-K-Katie

"K-K-K Katie, beautiful Katie

You're the only g-g-g-girl that I adore,

When the m-moon shines over the cowshed

I'll be waiting at the k-k-k-kitchen door."

It's an old war song my grandfather, the only person who always called me "Kate," sang to me as a little girl. Now I am singing it to my granddaughter.

From the time she was six weeks old, I would greet her with the song, clapping her tiny hands to the rhythm, waving them over her head for the "moon shine." At the end of the song, I would clap wildly and say, "Yea, Katie!" Then I would whisper softly, "It's your Gram, Love," as I kissed her. When my work took me on the road for too long a stretch, I would telephone to sing to her.

She first began smiling at the sound of her name, the one familiar word in her universe. The smile soon became a giggle as I waved her little arms over her head. Now, when I begin to sing, the smile of recognition is not just for her own name, but for me. It is her Grandma who sings, and it is not just her name but the love with which it is sung that creates the happiness in her face and the sunshine in her eyes.

Grandparent God, you have called me by name and I am yours.

To my granddaughter

I hold you in my arms, Katherine Emily, and quietly acknowledge you have changed my universe.

Did you know that your birth came at a terrible time in our world? Something terrible happened, Katie, and many, many people died. Some died on the outside, and some, like your Gram, died on the inside.

Some stopped believing in God, because something terrible was done in the name of God. And some stopped believing that we mattered, that any one of us mattered at all. How could our minuscule efforts, our worn-out prayers, possibly count in the face of so much evil?

And then you were born. Tiny, helpless, and beautiful, the most significant event in the whole troubled world, blissfully unaware of your power and your importance. And as the universe shifted to make room for you, I recognized we do not have to know we are significant for it to be true.

As I care for you, so God cares for me. As I believe in you, so God believes in me. As I love you, so God loves me.

Grandparent God, do I rock your universe?

KATHLEEN O. CHESTO is a consultant on family spirituality and religious education. She lives in Connecticut and is the author of Exploring the New Family: Parents and Their Young Adults in Transition (St. Mary's Press, 2001)