I hung up the phone, stunned. I hadn’t stopped to think things through when the social worker asked. Of course I’d said yes. I looked out the kitchen window at my husband, Chuck, playing catch with our three-year-old grandson, Logan, in the backyard.
Well, it was more Logan tossing the ball wildly and Chuck chasing it down, both of them laughing.
I’d been divorced for a long time and was ready to give up hope of finding a good man when I met Chuck, a widower and retired Air Force jet navigator, at church. I’d asked God to send me someone to share my life with. Chuck was the answer to my prayers and then some.
We’d been married almost five years, but still felt like newlyweds—maybe because we’d met when our kids were grown, so we had the luxury of having our marriage be centered on the two of us.
We had lots of together-time rituals. Starting the day singing “This is the Day,” a hymn with the words of our favorite Psalm. Date nights. Saturday mornings fishing on the bay, Sundays in choir. Romantic trips, even volunteering as lighthouse keepers in Maine one summer.
We were always up for new adventures. But what I’d just agreed to—were we up for this? I had to talk to Chuck. I called the guys in for dinner. Logan barreled through the door. “I’m hungry, Grandma!”
“Go wash your hands first,” I said.
While Logan was in the bathroom, I told Chuck we’d gotten another call. “His mom? What now?” he asked.
Logan is the son of my youngest boy, Cris. Even when Cris and Logan’s mom were a couple, their relationship was tumultuous. Cris’s ex had custody and things between them were so strained, we never knew when we might see our grandson.
Sometimes weeks would go by between visits, and I worried about him. Lately I’d been more worried than usual. My calls to his mom had gone unanswered for two months, and she’d moved from her last address.
I’d had no idea where Logan was, what his home life was like. All I could do was pray that he was happy, healthy and well cared for.
Finally I tracked his mom down at work. She let him stay with us for four days. Chuck and I were thrilled. We didn’t mind when she called and asked us to watch him for a few days longer.
What the social worker had talked to me about went way beyond that.
“It wasn’t his mom,” I told Chuck. “The state child-welfare office is removing Logan and his half-siblings from their mom’s home.”
Behind his glasses, Chuck’s eyes clouded with concern. “What’s going to happen to Logan?”
“The social worker asked if we would be his temporary guardians.” Before I lost my nerve, I blurted out the rest. “I said yes.” Silence. Chuck gave me a long look. “It was either us or foster care,” I said—to be honest, Cris wasn’t ready to be a full-time father yet.
“You don’t need to explain,” Chuck said. “It makes sense for us to take Logan. We love him and he loves us.”
Chuck made it sound so simple. “How long did the social worker say we would keep him?” he asked.
I repeated what she’d told me. “It could be anywhere from eight months up to his eighteenth birthday.”
It hadn’t completely registered until I said the words aloud. Logan might be living with us for the next 15 years! Were Chuck and I prepared to raise a child together? We’d never talked about it. We’d met as empty nesters, after all.
And was it the best choice for Logan? Chuck and I were fit and active. Still, we were in our sixties.
What if one of us developed serious health issues? Would the other one be able to take care of an ailing spouse and a growing grandchild? What if, God forbid, something happened to both of us? Where would that leave Logan?
Fear must have been written all over my face. Chuck took my hand. “It’ll work out,” he said. “We’ll just take this day by day.”
Logan raced back into the kitchen, waving his clean hands and shouting, “I’m ready to eat!”
Day by day? Minute by minute was more like it with a three-year-old.
Kids have no concept of time at that age. It wasn’t until several days later that it occurred to Logan that his mom hadn’t come to get him. We were making lunch when he asked, “Grandma, when am I going home?”
I couldn’t tell him that I didn’t know. That would only confuse him. “Not for a while,” I said, kissing his cute little nose. “Grandma and Grandpa want you to stay so we can all play together.” Logan giggled.
If only everything else were that uncomplicated! The social worker came to our house and detailed what would be expected of us. We would have to take Logan to doctor’s appointments. Enroll him in day care or preschool. Submit to frequent visits from caseworkers.
Chuck and I were used to living at a leisurely pace. That was impossible with a rambunctious little boy. Now we had to factor in nap time, snack time, bedtime, playtime. Lots of playtime.
We tried to keep our together-time rituals, but date nights and fishing at dawn turned into logistical challenges, as Chuck put it.
Running after a three-year-old fulltime wore us out. Exhaustion made us irritable. We got into spats. Chuck thought sweets should be saved for special occasions, not handed out to children every day. That’s military discipline, not family discipline, I thought.
One afternoon, Chuck saw me giving Logan a cookie shortly after lunch. I didn’t realize Chuck had just told him no. Chuck took me aside. He didn’t raise his voice but I could tell by the set of his jaw that he was deeply frustrated.
“We both know Logan needs structure and stability. How are we supposed to instill that if I’m doing one thing and you’re doing another?”
“I’m sorry for dragging you into my family’s mess,” I said. “I know you didn’t sign up for this.”
Chuck’s expression softened. “We might have to work harder to work things out,” he said. “But we’re in this together. Raising our grandson. Remember we prayed for a stable home for Logan? We just didn’t expect it to be our home.”
We talked about ways to give each of us time to do our own thing. Then Chuck suggested we make more of our time together. “Why don’t we go fishing Saturday morning, the three of us?”
“Are you sure?” What if Logan got hungry? Or bored? Or wouldn’t stop talking and scared away the fish? “You take the boat out first and enjoy some time to yourself,” I said. “You can pick us up at the dock a little later.”
Saturday Chuck left early. I got Logan ready and packed a picnic brunch. Chuck picked us up and took us out to our favorite spot in the bay. “Ready to catch some fish?” he asked.
“Yes, Grandpa!” Logan’s whole body bobbed up and down in excitement.
Chuck showed Logan how to bait the hook and cast the line. I watched, taking it all in. The breeze off the bay. Dolphins leaping in the distance. The big smile on my husband’s face, matched only by our grandson’s.
I didn’t know what would happen down the line, whether Logan would be with us another month, another year. But we’d take things day by day. Like our favorite Psalm says, “This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.”
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