grandparents

Becoming a grandparent makes getting older something to look forward to - all the fun of parenting, without the hassle.

From Scholarship Winner to Wanted Man: The Path of the Kirk Shooting Suspect
In the conservative southern Utah city where Tyler Robinson grew up, neighbors and classmates described him as a reserved, intelligent young man raised in a Republican family who was deeply interested in video games, comic books and current events.
By MUHAMMAD Abbasabout a year ago in Families
The Prayer of Dayan: A Child’s Faith That Brought Rain
The Prayer of Dayan BY:Ubaid Dayan was a kind and intelligent boy, known in his village not only for his love of studies but also for his deep respect toward his elders. He was the kind of child who listened more than he spoke, always eager to learn and always ready to help. His village was widely known for its wheat fields. Every year, golden crops would sway in the wind, bringing livelihood and joy to the farmers. But that year, things were different. The sky had withheld its mercy. Rain never came, and the soil turned hard and lifeless. Dayan often overheard worried conversations between the elders of the village. Everywhere he went, people spoke about the failing crops, the dry earth, and the uncertain future. One evening, as he sat quietly in a corner, he listened closely to a conversation between his father and mother. His father’s voice was heavy with concern. “I had taken a loan for repairing our house,” his father said. “I promised to repay it after the wheat harvest. But now, with no rain and no harvest, how will I keep my word? How will we survive?” Dayan’s heart sank. He loved his father dearly and could not bear to see him so worried. That night he could not sleep. He kept thinking, How can I help my father? How can I ease his pain? The next morning, as usual, Dayan went to the mosque for his Qur’an lesson. But his mind was elsewhere. He stumbled over his recitation, and the teacher, Molvi Sahib, noticed his distraction. After the class ended and the other children had left, Molvi Sahib gently called him closer. “My son, you seem lost today. What troubles you?” With tears in his eyes, Dayan shared everything—his father’s loan, the failing crops, and his own helplessness. Molvi Sahib listened patiently, then placed his hand on Dayan’s shoulder with a warm smile. “Dayan, it makes me happy that you care so deeply for your father’s troubles. You are indeed a good son. But remember one thing, my child: human beings have very little power on their own. The same God who sends trials also provides the solutions. What you must do is turn to Him sincerely. Pray with your whole heart, and never lose hope. Allah always listens to the prayers of His servants.” Dayan felt comforted by these words. That night, before going to bed, he asked his mother, “Please wake me up early tomorrow for prayer. I want to pray properly.” His mother smiled at his determination and promised she would. The next morning, Dayan woke up before dawn, washed himself carefully, and stood for prayer with a heart full of hope. After finishing, he raised his small hands and whispered his first heartfelt plea: “Dear Allah, please help my father. He is very worried because of the crops. Please send rain so that our wheat may grow. I promise I will always try to be a good child.” The day passed, but the sky remained dry. The next day he prayed again, and the day after that, and the day after that. Days turned into weeks, yet no rain came. Still, Dayan did not lose hope. Every prayer of his was filled with the same sincerity and innocence. One evening, his heart heavy with worry, he returned to Molvi Sahib. “Molvi Sahib, I have been praying every day, but still it hasn’t rained. Does Allah not hear me?” Molvi Sahib smiled and said gently, “Dayan, never think like that. Allah loves the way you ask Him. Sometimes He delays the answer because He wants His servant to keep asking. Your prayers are reaching Him, my child. Keep your faith strong.” Encouraged once more, Dayan returned home with renewed determination. The next morning, he stood again for prayer. With tears rolling down his cheeks, he raised his hands and spoke from the depths of his little heart: “Dear Allah, I know You love me, and You want me to always speak to You like this. I am worried for my father. If our wheat harvest fails, he will not be able to repay his loan. You always fulfill the rightful wishes of Your servants. Please, please send rain for us. I will always remain Your grateful servant.” He had not even lowered his hands when the world around him began to change. Outside, the skies darkened. Heavy, rolling clouds gathered quickly over the village. A cool breeze swept through the air, and the scent of rain filled the atmosphere. Dayan rushed out of the house and shouted with joy, “Ammi! Abbu! Come outside, look! My prayer has been answered!” And then, as if Heaven itself had opened, the rain poured down. The dry earth drank greedily, the villagers ran outside in relief, and tears of joy filled many eyes. Dayan’s parents stood beside him, their hearts overflowing with gratitude. The little boy raised his eyes to the sky once more and whispered softly, “Thank You, Allah. I love You.” That day, the heavens witnessed the power of a child’s sincere prayer. While the family rejoiced on earth, it seemed as though even the angels above celebrated the acceptance of that innocent plea.
By Ubaid about a year ago in Families
We Owe Our Kids A Good Childhood
As parents, we have the responsibility of raising the next generation of responsible adults. It is more important now, than ever before, to focus on the next generation.
By Elizabeth Woodsabout a year ago in Families
The Closed Door: A Mother’s Silent Sacrifice
The Closed Door: A Mother’s Silent Sacrifice BY:Khan Every time I open Facebook, I find myself confronted with heartbreaking stories. Some are so deeply moving that they linger in my mind for days, making it impossible to shake off the thoughts and emotions they stir. Not long ago, as I scrolled through various posts, one particular story caught my attention. It showed an old woman standing helplessly in front of a closed door. Her trembling hands knocked gently as she pleaded in a broken voice: “Open the door, my son. Don’t shut me out. I raised you with love, endured countless hardships, and sacrificed my life for your happiness. My world lit up because of you. And now you’ve thrown me out of this very home. I am your mother. Even in this pain, I cannot curse you. I can only pray that you live long and well.” I couldn’t believe what I was reading. Could a mother—whose very existence is an emblem of love and sacrifice—be treated in such a cruel way by her own child? This was not the first time I had come across such a story. A few weeks earlier, someone had narrated a similar incident. It was about a woman who was the mother of four children. Her life had already been a series of struggles. She was widowed at a young age, yet she bore the burden of raising her children with patience and dedication. In that household, however, the son’s wife and his mother were constantly at odds. Every day the husband returned home only to be bombarded with complaints from both sides. The tension grew unbearable. Finally, one evening, he lost his patience. “My life has become hell,” he shouted at his mother. “Every day there’s fighting in this house. I want peace. The only solution is for you to leave. Please, go live somewhere else.” The mother remained silent. She didn’t argue, nor did she defend herself. The very next morning, before anyone else had awakened, she quietly packed a small bag and left. She walked to the city’s shelter home, a place meant for abandoned elders. What happened to her there is another story—one full of loneliness and pain. When I first heard this account, I found it hard to believe. Could a son really utter such words to the very woman who carried him in her womb, who stayed awake countless nights to care for him, who dreamed of his future with every beat of her heart? A mother imagines her child growing up to be her support, especially when she has faced widowhood or loneliness. She envisions her son as a pillar of strength, a loyal companion who will stand by her side in old age. She weaves dreams of happiness, never once imagining that the very child she nurtured with her blood and tears could one day cast her aside. From the very beginning, a mother’s life revolves around her children. When they are infants, she sacrifices her sleep, her comfort, and often her health. When they grow older, she sacrifices her personal desires to ensure they are educated and well-fed. If she has little, she eats less so her child can eat more. If she has nothing, she still finds a way to provide. As the child progresses from school to college, the mother shoulders every responsibility—tuition fees, uniforms, books—all while hiding her own needs. And when her son finally grows up, finds a good job, and gets married, she feels her sacrifices were worth it. At least now, she thinks, he will settle down, and she can witness the joy of his new life. But too often, that is where the real tragedy begins. At first, the son remains devoted, listening to his mother and respecting her. But after marriage, priorities shift. The daughter-in-law, adjusting to her new home, sometimes finds it hard to live with the mother-in-law. Instead of compromise, conflict brews. Arguments turn into daily battles. And the son, caught in the middle, becomes weary of the constant tension. Eventually, in a moment of frustration, he blurts out the words no mother should ever have to hear: “Mother, please leave this house.” And just like that, the bond of decades shatters. The woman who once sacrificed her youth, her dreams, and her comfort is asked to step aside as though she no longer matters. Many end up in old-age homes, their hearts silently breaking as they wonder how love could turn into rejection. What sons and daughters often forget is that life is a cycle. What we give to our parents, we unknowingly teach our children. A son who drives his mother away is teaching his own children that one day, they can do the same to him. This is the law of karma—the law of sowing and reaping. Children learn more from what they see than from what they are told. If they witness their father disrespecting their grandmother, they will grow up thinking it is normal. If they see their mother-in-law humiliated, they may treat their own parents-in-law the same way. The home is the first school, and parents are the first teachers. That is why it is crucial to find peaceful solutions to family conflicts instead of resorting to cruelty. A son must remember that his mother is not a burden; she is the reason he exists. A daughter-in-law must realize that her husband’s mother deserves respect, not rejection. A family can only thrive if built on love, patience, and compromise—not selfishness. Imagine the pain of that mother standing outside a closed door, begging her own child to let her in. Imagine her loneliness in a shelter home, surrounded not by her grandchildren but by strangers. Imagine the nights she spends staring at the ceiling, asking herself where she went wrong, when all she ever did was love. No paradise can be achieved by hurting a mother. In fact, Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) said that paradise lies under a mother’s feet. To reject her is to reject the very key to heaven. So, I ask you: the next time you see your mother, hug her. Tell her you love her. Care for her while you still have the chance. Don’t wait until her hands are knocking on a closed door. Love your mother, honor her sacrifices, and protect her dignity. Because by honoring her, you are not only ensuring peace in your home—you are also securing a place for yourself in paradise.
By Khan about a year ago in Families
One last hug. Content Warning.
It's not very simple, this thing called grief. It's especially tricky when you face much of it seemingly frequently. My Grandfather was a quiet, reserved, military man. He had served in two branches of the armed forces before retiring from the Navy. There aren't many memories I have (especially growing up) that don't include him. He and my grandmother played integral roles in my childhood, given that my parents had to work so much because of my medical bills, etc. We went to the beach, he read me Aesop's fables from a beautifully illustrated book, and we went for walks. As I got older and began to play sports, he would pick me up for my flag football practices. We would always stop at a Wendy’s. He would order a salad, and I would have a kids' meal. He would give me the croutons from his salad, so when we got to the park, I could feed the ducks before the rest of the kids arrived because we were always early. This was our ritual for almost two years straight. I think he enjoyed that I wasn’t afraid to get dirty in the mud with the boys. I was the only girl on the team, and as I think back on it now, I think it might have made him proud that I tried. He went to every game, every recital, and even once when I received an award for writing the best D.A.R.E. essay in the county he and my grandmother were the only ones in attendance because my parents had to work.
By Lea Wilson about a year ago in Families
I Tried to 'Outsource' My Love for My Parents With Expensive Superfoods. It Was a Disaster.
There’s a unique brand of guilt that settles in when you live far away from your aging parents. It’s a low, constant hum in the background of your busy life. For me, living in a bustling city with a demanding career, that guilt was a constant companion. I couldn't be there to cook them a meal, to drive them to a doctor's appointment, or to simply sit with them on a quiet afternoon. So, I did what any tech-savvy millennial would do: I tried to automate my love.
By Vitamaxabout a year ago in Families
Things I Wish I Could Say at the Dinner Table
Dinner tables in brown households are their own kind of theatre. Everyone has a role: the talkative uncle with endless stories, the aunt with unsolicited advice, the parent who slips in reminders about grades or weight, the sibling who tries to disappear into their phone. And then there’s me, the one quietly calculating which version of myself will cause the least chaos.
By Tavleen Kaurabout a year ago in Families
When We Lost Her: How My Grandmother’s Passing Changed Our Family
The day my grandmother passed away is one I will never forget. It wasn’t just the loss of a person—it was the loss of a heartbeat that held us all together. The news spread like a quiet storm. Phones rang, whispers filled the air, and suddenly the entire family was moving in slow motion, stunned by the realization that our pillar was gone.
By Ian Muneneabout a year ago in Families
The Night Grandpa Came to Say Goodbye
I grew up with my family in California while my grandparents resided in Arizona. They had immigrated to the United States from Lithuania before my Dad was born, as they wanted to provide a better life for their children as they grew up.
By Janis Masyk-Jacksonabout a year ago in Families
Grandpa’s Lost Journal
Grandpa’s Lost Journal The attic always smelled of cedar and dust, a place we rarely ventured, except when the old house creaked too loudly for sleep. That Sunday afternoon, my sister Lila and I were sent up to find some long-lost board games for our rainy-day plans. The sun slanted through the tiny attic window, illuminating cobwebs that hung like forgotten memories. Amid the stacks of faded suitcases and moth-eaten coats, something unusual caught my eye: a leather-bound journal, its edges frayed and cover etched with Grandpa’s initials.
By Numan writesabout a year ago in Families
The Inheritance of Silence
My grandmother, Eleanor, was a woman carved from silence. It’s the only way I can think to describe her. In all the years I knew her, I’m not sure I ever heard her really, truly laugh—the kind that shakes your shoulders and makes your eyes water. Her smiles were thin, quick things that never quite reached her eyes, and her stories were about the weather or the rising price of groceries. When she died, I felt a polite, distant sadness, the kind you feel for the end of an era, not the sharp, gut-punch of losing someone you really knew.
By Abu Zar Khanabout a year ago in Families
The Last Light in the Window
The Last Light in the Window Ethan stood at the gate, suitcase in hand, staring at the small brick house that had been his compass for as long as he could remember. The evening sun painted the roof a glowing gold, the kind of glow that made everything look softer, kinder, even when reality was anything but.
By Wings of Time about a year ago in Families