Frequently something happens in my life that makes me stop and think, “I’m really a very fortunate person!” Its is true that I am. I have enjoyed all kinds of privilege in my life. I have met and worked with a number of people who have victims of all kinds of terrible things. Being privileged doesn’t mean that one will be happier, or more successful, or more accomplished than someone who has been a victim. It does, however, allow one to frame one’s life in a different way. When I think of my life, gratitude comes up over and over again. I am grateful for my parents and the family they raised. I am grateful for my siblings and the things they have taught me. I am grateful for my marriage and for my in-laws. I am grateful for my vocation and for the congregations who have called me and nurtured me. I am grateful for the opportunities I have had to travel and meet people from around the world whose life stories are very different from my own.

And, in the midst of this life journey, something so amazing happened that I continue to be filled with awe and wonder decades later. I became a father, first through the birth of the amazing miracle of a complete human being who came from his mother so amazing that I am still overwhelmed to think of his fingers and toes and eyes and ears and the uniqueness of his personality. Two and a half years later, out of all of the potential parents seeking to adopt and out of all of the children waiting to be placed, an agency in North Dakota placed his sister in our home, who was and is no less of a miracle. Just remembering what it felt like to hold her for the first time takes my breath away.

They have grown into the most remarkable adults who have learned to be good friends to others, to contribute to their communities, to provide leadership, and to follow vocations that are meaningful.

And they have brought grandchildren into our lives: five of the most amazing, incredible, wondrous human beings, each a miracle beyond description.

Yesterday, we had the good fortune of spending some time with the oldest of those grandchildren. He is eleven years old, delights us with the stories of his life, entertains us with the books he is reading, and knows more about Lego and Star Wars and Harry Potter and a dozen other subjects than I will ever know. We often have time when we are with him and his siblings, but yesterday was special because he was at our home while the rest of his family was engaged elsewhere.

He told us a story about something that happened in his school this week that made me remember an event in my life, when I was near the age he is now. I hadn’t thought of that event for decades.

First, my story. I had been told by several people whom I respected that bullies aren’t really as tough as they seem. They are mean because of things that have happened to them, and they need people to set limits for them. Bullies need people to stand up to them, and call their bluff. There was this kid in my school who was bigger than me and who taunted me over and over again. He kept challenging me to come out and “fight like a man.” I don’t remember why we would have wanted to fight. I don’t think I ever did anything that hurt him or made him mad. At first, I tried to ignore his challenges, but the name calling persisted and got worse. I decided that what needed to happen was for me to stand up to him. I’m not sure I know what I expected to happen, but I think that I thought that he would back down if I actually showed up for a fight.

We met on an empty lot on a corner not far from the school. I stood up to him and clenched my fists. He hit me in the nose, broke my glasses, and gave me a nosebleed. As I remember the story, I didn’t succeed in throwing a single punch. I managed not to cry. I had broken my glasses so many times before that I knew how to apply tape them back together until we could make a trip to the optometrist’s shop to have them fixed. And nosebleeds were so common in our household with four boys that it wasn’t a major event. I don’t remember what happened next, except that I think the bullying stopped. I don’t remember him taunting me or calling me names after that. We went on with our lives. We continued to live in the same town. It didn’t turn into anything bigger than a short and mis-matched fight that got over almost as soon as it began. I clearly lost the fight, but there were no long-term ill effects.

The story our grandson told us was about a bully at his school. The victim of the bully, however, wasn’t our grandson. I don’t know all of the details, but some boys were bullying another child, who is a friend of our grandson. Our grandson thought that there was a teacher who was aware of the bullying but who did not intervene to stop it. Our grandson, however, did. He helped his friend escape the place where the bullies had temporarily trapped him. Our grandson’s actions were noted by the teacher. He was recognized and thanked for his actions The bullies got into trouble with the school. Our grandson felt good for having done the right thing.

I think every grandparent deserves to hear stories in which their grandchildren are the heroes. It seems that decades from now our grandson probably won’t remember this week as a major event in his life, but I will remember what it felt like to hear him tell of his courage to do what he thought was right in the face of the bullies for the rest of my life.

I am thinking of re-writing my Curriculum Vitae. Instead of telling of my work experience, and the articles I have published, and the awards I have received, perhaps I should list my accomplishments in order of importance: “I am the husband of Susan, the father of Isaac and Rachel, and the grandfather of Elliot, Emmala, Eliza, Patrick, and Eero. I’ve done some interesting things in my life, but nothing more amazing than being a husband, father, and grandfather.”