“Guys, when we pray it is time to listen, not talk.” I spoke in a normal, conversational tone. Immediately, one of the boys erupted into inconsolable tears—pitiful, barely-being-able-to-breathe silences followed by ear-piercing screams. Grief that came from the depths of his soul. 

My son-in-law was praying before dinner at our home. Meanwhile, my four-year-old twin grandsons continued their conversation. So it was appropriate for me to say something.

“Guys, when we pray it is time to listen, not talk.” I spoke in a normal, conversational tone.

Immediately, one of the boys erupted into inconsolable tears—pitiful, barely-being-able-to-breathe silences followed by ear-piercing screams. Grief that came from the depths of his soul. He turned to his mother, who was sitting next to him, to seek some physical consolation, but he realized that was not going to help and fled to another part of the house.

Most of my grandchildren cried the first time I corrected them. We would talk about what happened, all would be fine, and by the next correction they had immunity to the thought that my correction was personal rejection. This grandson, however, has affection for me that goes deeper—even deeper than his desire to hoard his Halloween candy. For him, correction communicates that his grandfather is not pleased with something about him, and the perceived interruption of love is too much to bear.

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