When I went away to college, my grandma called me. After I married and Grandma became a widow, she called me even more. Once I had babies, she called all the time. “Please let me come live with you,” Grandma begged after my uncle put her in a nursing home. “In my day, we took care of our old folks,” said Grandma. “This generation just throws old people away. Let me come and help you with the babies.”

At the time, in my twenties, I was struggling to be a mom to two little girls, while writing nearly full-time for a newspaper. Taking in my grandmother, who’d had a stroke, felt absolutely impossible. And my husband said “No way.” Our little ones were already in day care, the youngest being potty-trained by someone else. My grandmother wore diapers now, too.

Back then, I put my head down and plowed on the career path I’d chosen, watching my once beautiful grandmother with her blue-black hair and teasing smile turn into a bitter old white-haired woman hidden away in a nursing home. Our little girls were tucked away too in a daycare alongside a rushing highway. I rushed in and out of all their lives, set on becoming a well-known writer, until the afternoon the day care lost our youngest daughter’s blanket. The one she stuck up her nose when she sucked her finger, seeking comfort.

“That blanket’s out there somewhere buried in the sandbox. Let it go.” said the woman who ran the day care.

Turning into a mad woman, I went to that massive sandbox and dug around like a desperate child myself. My daughter needed her blanket for security! How dare that woman tell me to let it go!

The blanket disappeared forever that day (we made Lacy a replacement blankie), along with my resolve to become a well-known writer. I was already well-known. To my daughters. To my grandmother (who died soon after in that awful nursing home). To those who needed me. I was known. Not only known, but irreplaceable.

As a writer, I was a dime a dozen. A dime is about all many writers make anyway (never write for the money. Write because you can’t live without writing).

From that moment on, I vowed to be my children’s security. Forget blankets. Sadly, it was too late to change things for Grandma, but my little ones would have their mama instead of some random person paid to raise them alongside a rushing highway.

I realize I was fortunate to have this choice to stay at home with my children (the newspaper even let me work from home). Not all moms get to do this. But all of us have a say in the families we build for ourselves (or don’t build for ourselves).

Yesterday in my Bible readings, I was struck by the passage: Luke 2:41-52. Mary and Joseph didn’t know they’d lost their 12 year old son because they were surrounded by relatives and friends helping them raise Jesus. They had so much faith in their extended family, they didn’t worry about Jesus missing for a day or two. He’s probably off playing with his cousins, being watched by uncles and aunts, perhaps they supposed.

Two thousand years later, many families are going it alone. They aren’t surrounded by family. They don’t have reliable friends. They’ve been burned by the church, or don’t belong to a church. They rely on their wallets to raise their kids. Paying for childcare. Paying for unending entertainment to keep their kids busy. Paying for iPhones and iPads and iPods. Our kids have had all these. The older kids iPhones their grandparents gave them. Luke now works to pay for his. Our little guys’ iPads, and an old iPod or two, we purchased for Christmases.

How easy it is to substitute play things for people. Growing up, my beautiful, black-haired grandmother spent plenty of time playing with me. We rode horses all day. Swam in irrigation ditches. Painted ceramics for hours. She was a fun grandma. She also frustrated my parents no end by letting my druggie uncle– her youngest son– sleep on the couch and lay around my grandparents’ yard for months at a time, living off Grandma, and his guitar. This uncle was an original Haight-Ashbury flower child. He never did clean up his act.

Not being entangled with family has its benefits. No drunken uncles. Or cranky aunts. Strangers at day cares rarely tell us how to raise our kids. At least not like grandparents just full of fine advice.

I remember on our first child, I asked all the grandparents and great-grandparents not to give Cami any candy. “I don’t want her to get cavities. If she never tastes candy, she won’t want any.” Ha! I was twenty-three-years-old and full of the wisdom of the universe. The grandparents laughed and ignored me. Cami got cavities. She also got very close to her grandparents. And remains deeply attached to them today.

(This photo isn’t my girls or grandmother. I pulled it from Pinterest. But it reminds me of Cami and Lacy back in Grandma’s kitchen.)

Building family bonds comes with challenges. But it also comes with blessings. And you don’t have to be blood-related to become a family. If your children don’t have grandparents, adopt some older folks. And take some younger people under your family wing. Ask God to show you what relationships He wants you to nurture in your life. What relationships He wants you to nurture for your children. Don’t let your kids spend all their time with their friends, or focused on themselves, or personal hobbies and sports. That’s just teaching children to be selfish. We need to teach our kids the value of serving others. The value of helping grandparents and baby cousins and other people in need. The value of being a meaningful part of a multigenerational community.