I’ve discovered one of my spiritual gifts is people‑watching. Not voyeurism — just the noble art of observing humanity doing what humanity does best: being mildly ridiculous in public. Parks, malls, bus stops… everywhere you look, people are unintentionally performing a live comedy show.
Over the weekend, Mandy and I were at a family garden bar listening to music when a toddler swaggered past like he owned the place. He’d just learned to walk — that magical stage where every child thinks they’re on an expedition to Mars. He wandered off, realised he’d gone too far, panicked, and sprinted back to mum like he’d just remembered he left the oven on. Cute, yes — but also a brutal reminder that our own kids were once that small before they grew up and started sending us messages that begin with “Dad, can you…?”
Now we’re grandparents to ten, which means life has returned to the chaos we naively thought we’d retired from. The four who live nearby have followed our lead and join us at parkrun at dawn on Saturdays — because yes, they are learning we’re a fitness family now — then off to sports, activities, and whatever else children invent to keep adults permanently exhausted.
Sundays aren’t much calmer. When their parents worship with us — abandoning their own church for the superior option, obviously — we gather again for lunch and whatever comes after. Usually noise. Always crumbs. Sometimes theological debates that make you question whether anyone actually listened to the sermon.
Our Australian grandkids don’t get us as often, but when we visit, it’s full‑on. Wonderful, yes. But also a reminder that we are not, in fact, 25 anymore, no matter what our knees pretend.
Their mum and dad are champions — five kids, endless activities, and still functioning. But a meme my daughter‑in‑law posted stopped me mid‑scroll:
“To every parent sitting on the sidelines… remember this is just a season. They grow up faster than you think.”
A gentle reminder wrapped in a slap. And it’s true. Time doesn’t care how busy we are. The season we have to teach our children in the ways of the Lord is short. And the season we have to pass down our stories — our history, our culture, our “back in my day” tales — is even shorter.
Scripture doesn’t sugar‑coat it:
“Watch yourselves closely… Teach them to your children and their children after them.”
— Deuteronomy 4:9
Translation:
If you don’t tell them, they won’t know. And if they don’t know, that’s on you. Not the school. Not the pastor. You.
I often think of my grandmother, born in 1899. She grew up before the Wright Brothers flew, before Richard Pearse took to the air — yet lived long enough to watch a man walk on the moon.
Imagine the stories she carried. Imagine the ones we carry. And imagine how tragic it would be if we never bothered to pass them on because we were too busy scrolling reels of people falling off skateboards.
Deuteronomy hits again:
“Teach them to your children… when you sit at home, when you walk along the road…”
— Deuteronomy 11:19
In other words:
You don’t need a pulpit. You just need to open your mouth.
Recently at “Grandparents Day,” we were asked to fill out a form. One question nearly broke me: What was the most significant thing that influenced your life? The internet came to mind — obviously — but then I remembered a Friday night in Mosgiel in the 1960s. A member of the Open Air Campaigners stopped me and said, “Imagine the return of Jesus… every eye will see Him.” That moment stuck. It shaped me. And yes, I’ve documented it in a podcast.
So here’s the bite:
These seasons — childhood, parenthood, grandparenthood — they fly by. And if we don’t use them, we lose them. If we don’t teach, they won’t learn. If we don’t tell our stories, they disappear.
Enjoy the sideline.
Cherish the chaos.
And for goodness’ sake, stop pretending you have all the time in the world. You don’t. None of us do.