The “grandsons” at my my book launch for Thirty Days to Glory. #mybiggestfans

Last weekend, we enjoyed a rare visit with my husband’s big brother and his wife from Tampa, Florida. Rees has always been the family hero, which you would expect from a brother who was already driving a yellow convertible by the time you were old enough to enter first grade. And his wife, Frankie, is the life of every party, mostly because she knows the actual secret to Life, which is Jesus. She once sat on the floor of an ancient RV and sang songs to help control my panic while our mutual father-in-law coached the beast up Pike’s Peak and back down again. No wonder I love her.

We have shared lots of things in the last forty years, and some of them are children. After their son, Jared, became something of a sibling for our teenagers and moved into our house for a few years, the lines between Mom/Pop/Aunt/Uncle blurred for a little while. It has always been perfectly clear who Jared’s parents are, and they have done a remarkable job raising such a fine young man. But, we lived almost next door to him the last few years. So, when our grandchildren called us “Grandpa” and “Grandma”, Jared’s children followed the pack.

At some point in each of their little lives, it became important to the boys to differentiate this for people. “She is actually my Great-Aunt,”one of them would say, “but I call her Grandma.”

Last weekend, though, nobody paid much attention to such things. When Jude wanted someone to pass the salt, he simply said, “Hey, Grandpa,” and both men responded. Sims called Frankie and I both Grandma with confidence that we would know which one of us he was beckoning for a hug or a game or an apology when he had misbehaved. Peter, already more a young man than a boy, used the terms of endearment with an extra edge of gratitude in his voice, I thought. As if he understood what a treasure it is to live in a family with so much love it just spills over and splashes out until the definitions of relationships blend like watercolors on a wet page.

Our painting is far from perfect, of course. In fact, it is pretty messy sometimes. But I love the colors.