This is for all the grandfathers out there!

Last week I took my grandkids out to a restaurant, the kind with sticky booths, crayons that never work, and a dessert menu designed to ruin any adult’s discipline in under thirty seconds.

We’d barely settled in before my six-year-old grandson—serious as a tiny judge—asked if he could say grace. Now, I’m a grandfather. That means I say yes to the things that make memories, even if they make me slightly nervous in public.

“Of course,” I told him.

He climbed onto his knees, folded his hands like he’d practiced a hundred times, and the whole table bowed our heads. He cleared his throat with the confidence of someone who has never once worried about being cringe.

“God is good, God is great. Thank you for the food,” he began, steady and proud.

Then he added, louder, “And I would thank you even more if Grandpa gets us ice cream for dessert.”

I felt my wife’s shoulders start to shake with laughter.

“And liberty and justice for all! Amen!”

The table erupted. Not just us—nearby customers too. A couple in the next booth actually applauded. It was innocent, funny, and exactly the kind of prayer a kid says when the world still feels friendly and God feels close enough to negotiate with.

That’s when I heard it.

A woman a few tables over leaned toward whoever she was with and said, loud enough to travel, “That’s what’s wrong with this country. Kids today don’t even know how to pray. Asking God for ice cream. Honestly.”

You could feel the air change. The laughter thinned. People went back to their menus, suddenly pretending they hadn’t heard.

My grandson did hear.

His face crumpled like a paper napkin in a fist. Tears welled up and spilled over, fast and hot. He slid down into his seat and whispered, “Did I do it wrong? Is God mad at me?”

That question hit me straight in the chest. Not because of the woman—people like that have been around forever—but because a kid’s heart is a fragile thing. One careless comment can turn a sweet moment into shame.

I pulled him close and said, “Buddy, you did it perfectly. God isn’t mad at you. Not even a little.” I kissed the top of his head and added, “If anything, I think God smiled.”

He tried to believe me, but he kept glancing toward that table like the comment had put a stain on the whole room.

That’s when an elderly gentleman stood up from a booth near the window and walked over. He moved slowly, with the steady confidence of someone who has lived long enough to stop caring what strangers think.

He leaned down a little, looked my grandson right in the eye, and gave him a wink.

“You know something?” he said. “I happen to know that God thought that was a great prayer.”

My grandson blinked, sniffled, and stared at him like he’d just been handed official paperwork from heaven.

“Really?” he asked.

“Cross my heart,” the man replied, placing his hand over his chest with a solemn nod.

Then he lowered his voice dramatically, like he was telling a secret mission briefing, and gestured subtly toward the woman.

“Too bad some people never ask God for ice cream,” he whispered. “A little sweetness is good for the soul sometimes.”

My grandson’s mouth twitched. A laugh tried to escape and got stuck halfway, turning into a hiccup. The gentleman patted his shoulder gently, nodded at me, and returned to his table like he’d just done his good deed for the week.

Dinner went on. My grandson recovered, slowly, the way kids do when you give them permission to stop feeling embarrassed. He started telling me about a video game. He stole fries from my plate like it was his job. He even asked our server if they had “the biggest ice cream in the building.”

When dessert time came, I did what any grandfather with a conscience and a reputation would do. I ordered the ice cream.

Three sundaes arrived: whipped cream, chocolate drizzle, and enough sprinkles to make dentists cry. My grandson stared at his like it was a prize he’d earned through prayer and perseverance. He didn’t dig in right away. He just looked at it, quiet and thoughtful.

Then he did something I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

He carefully picked up his sundae with both hands and slid out of the booth. I started to say, “Hey—watch out,” because I was imagining a catastrophic spill across someone’s lap.

But he walked straight over to the woman’s table, stood there like a tiny ambassador, and set the sundae down in front of her.

The woman looked up, startled, like kindness was an unexpected language.

My grandson smiled—big, open, fearless.

“This is for you,” he said.

Everyone within earshot went still.

“I hope it makes you feel better,” he added, because that was the only weapon he had: sweetness.

The woman opened her mouth. Whatever she planned to say—defensive, embarrassed, dismissive—never quite formed. She just stared at the sundae like it had accused her without saying a word.

My grandson gave her one last polite nod, walked back to our booth, and climbed into his seat.

I leaned down and asked quietly, “You okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “God’s not mad. And maybe she’s just having a hard day.”

That, right there, is why grandfathers end up soft even when they pretend they’re not.

On the drive home, I was still thinking about it when my wife started laughing. The kind of laugh that means she was about to tell me something I was going to regret hearing.

“Want to know the difference between grandmothers and grandfathers?” she asked.

I already knew the answer was going to be dangerous, but I played along.

A buddy of mine—let’s call him Frank—used to work out of town all week. Every Sunday morning, he’d make it up to his family by taking his seven-year-old granddaughter for a drive. Just the two of them. A little tradition. A little bonding. A little “let’s go look at the world together.”

One Sunday, Frank came down with a brutal cold. The kind that makes a man believe he is near death and should be treated accordingly. He didn’t have the energy for a drive, so his wife said, “I’ll take her.”

When they came back, the granddaughter ran upstairs like she’d been shot out of a cannon and burst into Frank’s room.

He croaked, “Well, did you enjoy your ride with Grandma?”

“Oh yes, Papa!” she said, bright as sunrise. “And do you know what?”

“What?” he asked.

“We didn’t see a single rude driver, mean person, or silly idiot anywhere we went today!”

Frank stared at her, confused, until his wife called from the hallway, calm as a saint: “That’s because I don’t narrate traffic.”

And that’s the whole difference right there.

Grandfathers are loud. We call the world what it is, sometimes with more color than necessary. We grumble, we judge, we talk to other drivers like they can hear us through glass. Grandmothers tend to glide through the same streets like it’s all fine, like the world can be handled with a deep breath and a steady hand.

But every now and then, a kid reminds you what matters.

A simple prayer. A little mercy. And, if you’re lucky, ice cream at the end of the meal—served with a lesson no adult in the room expected to get that night.