Category Archives: Remembering

The “Keepers” file

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Tucked into the “K” section of our file cabinet is a manila folder marked “Keepers”. It’s bulging with over 100 notes, cards and letters written by our children. The run-of-the-mill thank you notes or greeting cards that came with just a signature are not included. The Keepers file is reserved for words that are too cute, too powerful, too moving to part with.

Keepers file 2

Some are written in the labored printing of a first grader:

“I like you and your fammlee. I like whiut you duw for me. I like my klos I wier. I like my fowd. I like you.”

Others contain the scrawl of a teenage son: “I tried to write a poem, but it wasn’t going well. So I decided I would just tell you how much you have helped me through the years. I could never repay you, but I’ll still try!”

Then there is the swirly script of a middle school daughter: “Is there any possible way I could sleep in today? Please?!?! I didn’t get to lay down in my bed until exactly 1:25 and 30 seconds! My stomach hurts and I have a headache and I can’t see strait because everything wobbles and my eyes are watering.”

In a store-bought Mother’s Day card, one high school son simply wrote: “Thank you for having me.” And a fifth grade daughter, struggling with creativity, wrote: “Mom and Papa, you bring us love. Two wonderful parents sent from above. We’ll never push, we’ll never shove. We’ll give you are hearts which are happiness full of.”

Another note contains a song entitled “Mom” complete with hand-written score and large piano notes, composed by an eleven year old. Several cards are accompanied by short stories and two by full-blown picture books. One offered a coupon for free babysitting of a little sister.

From a 14 year old son we read: “I have some bad news. An almost full 32 oz bottle of water hit your car trunk and dented it. I will pay.”

Several letters included heart-felt apologies, this one from a nine year old: “I can live without a Barbi, and I can wait a few years to learn the flute. I’m sorry I complain alot. Please forgive me for it. I love you! XOXO.”

As the kids grew older, their letters contained more serious messages. From a new college grad we heard, “I used to be really focused on creating a fun life for myself. I believed in God, but I used to think if I gave everything over to him, my life wouldn’t be as good, like I needed to hang onto some areas or I wouldn’t get what I wanted. The funny part is, letting go is the only way you ever feel peaceful.”

One of our twenty-somethings wrote: “You’ve demonstrated what it means to weather the storm and consistently live by the principles you believe. That’s uncommon today. Thanks for being role models and commitment-keepers. Everyone notices.”

And a thirty-something wrote: “Thanks for all the support you give all your children. It must be hard doing all the prayer work and seeing fruit only some of the time. We may not always say so, but thank you.”

Why do we keep these? It’s because they’re a written record of family love, each one a treasure. And if the house was burning down, it’s the Keepers file I’d grab.

Celebrities get right in.

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There were no suburban shopping malls when I was a kid. Young teens rode cheap, safe elevated trains to downtown Chicago, where they found big department stores and double feature movies. Best of all for me was knowing that Dad was downtown, too, officing at 111 W. Washington Street. His architectural and engineering firm, employing more than 200 draftsmen, occupied half of the 8th floor.

Dad was a successful businessman with many demands on his time, but none of that impressed me at 14. Instead, I loved the thick glass double doors with his name on them, his polished oak desk and his wall of windows overlooking the city.

After a day of shopping, I’d inevitably end up in Dad’s office, hoping for a hand-out. Scruffy-looking that I might be, once the receptionist recognized me, she’d quickly usher me through the secretarial pool and right into his office, even if he was conducting a meeting. Dad always smiled when he saw me. Walking through his door, I felt like somebody special.

Many girls grow up without this kind of father-love. God knew that would happen and made a special effort to fill the gap. The Bible often refers to him as our Father and even as our Daddy, inviting us into this parent-child relationship. All are welcome, and the best part is that his skills as a father supercede those of even the best earthly dad.

My father was committed to many people. His time was spread thin, and he didn’t always know the best way to solve every problem, especially when I became a big one at 17. Dad was also a worrier, and he often met with exhaustion. Though he smiled when I came to his office, he wasn’t always glad to be disturbed, for example, during the night.

Father-God, on the other hand, runs the whole world without becoming worn out or spread thin. He knows the answer to every question and is never confused. Best of all, the heavenly Father is always glad to see me coming, even during the night. Maybe especially during the night. I’ve never gotten the vibe, “Oh no, not you again.”

When my dad died, he left me. He couldn’t help it. Since then, my longing to talk to him and get his counsel has sometimes made me cry, because I know I can’t get to him. No amount of wishing will make it so.

But Father-God says he’ll never step away from me. He is always available and repeatedly says, “I love you with an everlasting love. If you’re fatherless, I’ll be your Father, welcoming you, comforting you, advising you.” He says that to me and also to you. He has said it to all of his children, throughout the ages, and what he says he’ll do, he always does.

Let’s play “Cut the Cake!”

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My family spent a great deal of time at the beach when I was growing up, a sandy, dunes-style beach on Lake Michigan’s eastern shore. Mom was untiring in her efforts to make sure we had fun there. “The more the merrier” was a motto she embraced, which meant we could invite all the friends we wanted, whether for a day or a week. She never complained about youthful crowds. To the contrary, she was energized by them.

After we arrived at the beach with our big, black, truck inner-tubes (the kind that rubbed black onto our bathing suits), Mom was always first into the water, teaching visitors to stand on their heads by going under without holding their noses. She made her shoulders available for kids nearly as big as she was to jump from. She raced us all to the anchored raft “out deep” where no one could touch bottom.

Mom never brought a magazine or a book to the beach. Her first choice was to play with children. One of the beach games Mom loved was “Cut the Cake.” Using a bucket for a mold, she turned out a cake of wet sand that was perfectly round. “Go find stones to decorate it,” she directed, “and bring something for the middle, a feather, a stick, whatever you want to make it pretty.”

We “sugared it” with the soft, dry sand and then stood back to admire our work. “Now,” she said, “we’re going to cut the cake.” With a thin stick found in the dunes nearby, she demonstrated what she meant by slicing a piece of sand-cake thin enough not to disturb the rest of it.

Handing the stick-knife to the nearest child, she said, “Your turn. If the cake falls when you slice it, you have to run up and down the dunes five times (or run into the water and stay under 30 seconds, or carry someone on your back anywhere they want to go, etc).

Each person took turns slicing a tiny bit more of the cake while the sun slowly dried the wet sand, increasing the threat of “a fall.”  At long last, someone’s slice caused the remaining cake to crumble, causing hoots and hollers from those who hadn’t lost1 the game. Mom always laughed the hardest.

The sands of time ran out for Mom, but she left behind her spirit of fun for our grandkids to enjoy. Last week I taught a child how to make a bucket cake. (Use only wet sand, pack it tight at the bottom, pile sand slightly above the rim, flip it fast). As I watched him struggle to master this “baking” task, I thought of Mom. She left a lofty heritage in many categories, and surely one of them was how to experience joy among children by playing “Cut the Cake.”