The Grape Soda in My Dad’s Hand

Kevin Tondra discusses how the most sacred lessons are taught to the next generation through everyday example rather than lectures.

I often find myself thinking about my dad in small, ordinary moments. Usually, something simple brings him to mind. Some childhood memories don't stay because they were big or dramatic. They stay because, years later, you realize they shaped you in ways you didn't notice at the time.

One of those memories for me involves a can of grape soda.

When I was a young boy, my dad would occasionally have friends over to our basement to play ping pong. I can still hear the ball bouncing back and forth across the table, the laughter, and the steady rhythm of a game that went on for hours. My dad loved it. He was competitive, but he also laughed a lot. Even when he was getting beat, he would just laugh and keep playing. He was never a sore loser.

Like a lot of gatherings back then, there was beer around. I remember cans of Hamm’s sitting on our pool table while the games went on and the conversation carried through the basement. But that’s not what I remember most.

What I remember is my dad’s drink.

While most of his friends had a beer in their hands, my dad usually had a grape soda. At the time, I didn’t think anything of it. I was just a kid. I wasn’t thinking in terms of influence or example. I just noticed things.

The Lessons We Inherit

It wasn’t until years later that the memory came back to me. As a teenager, I saw plenty of kids around me start experimenting with alcohol. Some of it was harmless enough, and some of it wasn’t. There was always pressure—spoken or unspoken—to just go along with what everyone else was doing.

And in those moments, I’d picture my dad again, a grape soda in his hand. He never sat me down and explained why he chose it. He didn’t have to. He just lived his life, and I watched without realizing how closely I was watching. It stuck.

Now, I’m a father of two grown daughters who still live at home. One is 22 and works as a paraprofessional with children who have special needs. The other is 19 and works as a dental assistant in a children’s dental office. Both spend their days around kids who need patience, calm, and kindness.

Watching them navigate their days, I think a lot about how character forms. It doesn’t usually happen all at once. It comes from what’s seen over time, and I notice that more in myself now. My daughters are still watching how I respond to stress, how I speak when I’m frustrated, and how I treat people when there’s nothing to gain from it.

Most of the time, it’s not what we say that lasts. It’s what we do without thinking about it. It’s in the ordinary rhythms of a house — meals, conversations, how we speak when we’re tired — that the important things get passed on.

Living the Truth

Jesus taught, but He also lived what He taught. He knelt and washed feet. He stopped when others walked past. Love was something people could see in real time. That same pattern shows up in families, too.

As parents, we often exhaust ourselves trying to find the perfect words to pass on our values and our faith. But maybe the most sacred thing we can do is simply let our children see us live it out in the quiet spaces of our homes.

Looking back, I don’t think my dad ever saw those nights in the basement as anything more than time with friends and a game of ping pong. He was just being himself. He’s older now, living quietly on his own since my mom passed away four years ago, but that steady presence hasn’t changed. I remember it, not because it was unusual, but because it stayed.

Most parents don’t know which moments will take root. We’re just living our lives, trying to be steady, trying to do right by the people in front of us. But it’s often those small, unremarkable moments that last the longest: a laugh when things aren’t going your way, a steady presence in the middle of a noisy room, a habit of not taking yourself too seriously.

Or a grape soda sitting on a pool table in a basement full of ping pong games and conversation.

I can still see him there — just present, just himself, not teaching anything. And somehow, he taught everything. That’s the part I keep coming back to. It wasn't what I was told; it was what I saw.

And even now, years later, I realize something simple about myself: I’d still rather have a can of grape soda. I think it’s because it reminds me of him.

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Copyright 2026 Kevin Tondra
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