The Crown

Yesterday was Father’s Day.

Three days removed from surgery, I was still a little foggy and somewhere between anesthesia and reality.

My body felt like it had been through a minor aviation incident… the kind where everything technically lands safely,

But you still sit there afterward thinking, “Well… that got my attention.”

And then there’s the arm. One working, one down for maintenance.

Turns out, you don’t realize how much you need two arms until one files for early retirement. Six months of recovery ahead, along with the “delights” of physical therapy. I’ve been told it builds character. I was hoping mine was already fully built. Sigh.

Still, there was a bright side.

My daughters arrived, along with a son-in-law and nearly the full roster of grandchildren. The pool was open, the sun was doing its summer thing, and laughter settled in like it had every intention of staying awhile. That's my kind of day. Put me near my family, and I'm about as content as a man can be... one arm or not.

We ate well—too well, if I’m honest—and laughed like we always do. I watched the grandkids in their natural habitat: splashing, running, inventing games that make no sense to adults but all the sense in the world to them. Each one different. Each one remarkable.

And yes… they're perfect. There, I said it. Grandparent privilege.

I sat under an umbrella, two fans doing their best to blow warm Georgia air across my face like a hair dryer set on “encourage.” I had a brief moment, just a flicker, of wishing I could jump in the pool and join the chaos. But before self-pity could get comfortable, my wife walked over and placed a crown on my head.

A crown.

Now, I’m not sure what kingly duties I performed to deserve that, but I wore it anyway. When life hands you a crown, you don’t argue—you adjust it and try to look dignified, even if you're sitting in a recliner with one arm and barbeque sauce on your chin... and shirt.

By evening, the house slowly quieted. Goodbye hugs completed. Cars pulled away. And the day folded itself into memory.

Later that night, I woke from a dream, something about a crown, about parents and children. Still half in that soft glow, I eased myself out of my temporary command center—an adjustable recliner that now knows all my secrets—and made my way to the computer.

I opened Bible Gateway. And there it was, Proverbs 17:6:

“Grandchildren are the crown of the aged, and parents are the glory of their children.”

Simple words. But not small ones.

I read it again. And again. Different translations. Same truth. Two words kept rising to the surface—crown and glory. Not casual language. Not accidental. Words a king would understand and choose carefully.

Scripture has a way of doing that—saying something in a sentence that takes us a lifetime to fully grasp.

I’m no Solomon. I tend to need more than two sentences and a nap in betweento explain things properly. But I believe this much:

There is a quiet, beautiful order in God’s design.

When we pour into our children, when we try (sometimes clumsily) to live out our faith in front of them, when we point them, again and again, toward their Creator, something happens over time. Seeds take root. Lives grow. And one day, without ceremony, you look around and realize—You’re wearing a crown.

Not the kind made of gold.

The kind made of names.

Of laughter.

Of little voices calling you Pappa.

And the jewels in that crown?

They run through your house, splash in your pool, and leave their fingerprints on everything you own.

Today, I still feel that glow.

And I celebrate the crown I’ve been given—containing five of the brightest, most dazzling jewels God ever created.

Not bad… for a one-armed king, eh?

Copyright 2024, revised May 2026 Gary Landerfelt MyPericope.com