As a certified old person, I have lived through a lot of eras that began, flourished, and ended. In some cases, the end of an era was a blessing. If I never see plaid bellbottoms or a powder blue leisure suit again, I’ll be just as happy. The others are sad and are to be mourned: the ability to have a calm, fact-based discussion about politics, for instance.

However, this era is purely personal, affects no one but my wife and me, and has a blurred end line.

For just over twenty-five years, Linda and I have been watching our grandchildren grow up. I have always believed that grandchildren are the reward God gives you for raising children. You get the joy but not the responsibility. If things are going well, you claim that your genetics (passed through your son or daughter) are largely responsible. If not, you can always blame it on the parents. (Of course, neither of these positions is true, but that needn’t matter.)

Yesterday I had the vision of another door closing. I took my youngest grandchild to lunch. He’s not yet grown, but he’s getting close. Physically, he’s more grown than I’ve ever been. Mentally and emotionally, he’s a good deal more mature than I was at his age or for some years after. All in all, he is a worthy representative of the species grandchild.

Because most of our encounters over the last several years have been at family gatherings, we hadn’t had a lot of time to talk about deep and serious things. But yesterday, we did. I found out, for instance, that he’ll be starting at defensive tackle for his high school’s football team this year. I consider this an extraordinary accomplishment for someone who had never suited up for any type of football until last year.

His success in making the team and earning a starting position is yet another story, one that—if he can figure out a way to write it up—will make an impressive addition to his college applications. A few years ago, Quinn decided that he wanted to make some serious changes in his physical skills, so he embarked on a self-designed program that changed both his body and his abilities. Since I’ve never had athletic ambitions and haven’t been drawn to the Charles Atlas ads that were on the back covers of the comic books I read, I couldn’t identify much with his objectives. However, I can identify with commitment. He determined what he wanted to do, figured out a way to do it, and stuck with it for more than two years (so far).

That’s a very grown-up thing to do.

I also learned that he’s experimenting with cooking, with mixed results. (Something I’m still doing with similar results.) I learned that he can still be embarrassed: seems that he and his friends went to a movie that was—as he tells it—steamier than they thought it would be, and an older couple who “looked a lot like you and Nana” sat down beside him. He was uncomfortable for the rest of the movie. Good for him.

In the stories he recounted, there were flashes of teen-aged learning, mistakes made and corrected. But there were more glimpses of a young man with—in many areas—a maturity beyond his years. It won’t be long before he completes the process, and the wonder of nearly constant change gives way to maturation. The maturation is more dependable but not nearly so much fun to watch.

We enjoyed a good hamburger together, bonding on our mutual affection for nearly raw meat. I beamed when he expressed his respect and appreciation for his parents. And I felt pretty well wrapped up when he gave me a hug.

I took him back to his house, and when I left, I thanked God that Linda and I had been given the privilege of watching grandchildren grow up, to go from being entertaining toddlers to being good and responsible adults. I felt that all four of them, Barrett, Iris, Sabrina, and Quinn, were additional stamps of validation for our lives, just as our children’s lives have been.

That means that we did good.