Sometimes, on overnights at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, I’d sleep down in the basement. They had a cool, dark, extremely cozy bedroom all the way in the back.
In the morning, I remember being awakened by strange noises. Scraping, metallic noises, the crumpling of newspaper, and dull wooden knocks. A flickering light under the crack of my door and the unmistakable aroma of the wood stove interpreted the sounds–Grandpa was building his fire in the next room–his Study–complete with book cases, a large desk, and an old recliner facing the fire.
I’d open my door, stumble out in my pajamas, and see Grandpa sitting in his chair reading his Bible. He wasn’t putting on a pious show for me. This wasn’t an isolated incident. This was his life. His morning routine–consistent as the sunrise.
It makes an impression on a young man.
Now I’m a dad, and I’m wondering what my kids will remember about the rhythms of our daily life when they’re grown. It’s awfully convenient to scroll through my Bible reading on my phone–but that looks exactly the same as reading the news or my email. Pondering Grandpa’s worn out chair and well loved Bible–I think I’ll put the phone away and switch back to my Bible. The children are watching.