I'm a little weepy as I write this, and it's not all due to dust and mold allergy! Some of the heirlooms in our house are going to good homes with family members. We're thrilled that they won't end with us and will live on with others who love them and the people they're connected to.
The cedar chest my grandfather made. He was a cabinet maker and built beautiful furniture. This one wasn't good furniture, it was utilitarian. Yet, made with respect and care because in those days, you did everything that way. It's covered with grime, painted gray, spiders are in it. But the person who is going to get it is going to love restoring it.
A tiny wooden stool. My grandpop was fond of making stools! He'd find a good piece of wood in the trash and start creating. That's also going to be fun for my niece to restore.
A little oak box of some sort. We had to pry the cover off, to find it was really a tiny chest. Opening the drawers I began my tearful journey with my father's rulers. Okay. What's the big deal about rulers? My father had this thing about them. Occasionally he even made his own. When he had his business he ordered hundreds of them with his name on them. Beige color, plastic, beveled edges, they were the staples of my life with him. Underlining in his Bible, making art work, in business as he measured glasses for customers. It took me back to those days when I would watch him study for his turn preaching. I'd ask him what his topic was and he'd always say, "Sin. I'm against it." We're going to keep the little box and restore it. Even if we never use it, it's a memory.
There are other cabinets filled with tools. Hard core woodworking and construction drills and bits. Dad was the consummate builder, like his dad.
David reached up and brought down a wooden box that was high up out of sight. I recognized it right away. Slowly pushed the dust away and opened it... it was my father's art box. That did it with the restraint. Pastel chalks, charcoal pencils, watercolors, oil chalks, gum erasers. The whole vista of memory opened up. Dad was an artist who should have done it for a living. He used his art in ministry. He did 'chalk talks', if any of you over 60 remember them. Illustrating a sermon or talk by drawing a picture in chalks then giving it away to an audience member. I would have my little easel, beside his, he'd put out the chalks and pencils and direct me. He did the big one, I did a little one. Sometimes he'd give me what he had done. For many years I had a chalk picture on the door of my bedroom of the Safe Harbor - a ship coming into the harbor at dusk, red sky, setting sun, safe from the storms of the day. I'd stare at it at night and think of God, my harbor. That picture did more for my acceptance of God than any number of sermons. When we were finished drawing he would insist that I put the materials away correctly. Sometimes I went with him to the art store for supplies and he would buy me sketching pencils or art paper. Once he brought home one of those jointed wooden dolls that an artist uses to sketch form.
I'm reminded of the verse that says, "Lord, you have been my dwelling place through all generations." More than the actual things, it's the memory of my dear parents who taught not by words or strap, but by living out the example.
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