The fall of my junior year of high school my dad had a "great idea". Years ago he had cut down a giant cedar tree. He decided that we were going to bring it home and make it into a hope chest. We loaded the huge tree in our truck and took it to the local sawmill. In the small town where we lived, if you knew the owner of the sawmill you could just go use the sawmill any time you wanted to. You didn't have to know what you were doing, no safety training was required. All you needed was some wood, and a brave soul (Or teenage daughter without a choice) and you could cut your own lumber. We cut the tree into giant planks of wood and hauled them home to begin our project. We sketched out our ideas, and came up with the perfect design. Then the hard work began. It took months. We payed special attention to detail making sure that we chose the pieces with the most beautiful grain. The dove tail joints all matched up perfectly. The lid had my name inlaid in oak with a trim around the edge. If a piece was not perfect it was not included. Nothing less than perfection was aloud to go into our beautiful box. As we worked, a miracle happened...a friendship grew. My dad was suddenly more than a dad, he was my friend. We had the opportunity to learn from each other, talk about "real" things, and get to know each other the way few 16 year olds and their fathers ever do. Because of those months spending time together I had a beautiful hope chest that would be home for my hopes and dreams, but most importantly because of the time and effort invested in that box I had a beautiful relationship with my father.
For years this box has brought me joy. Many new memories have taken residence with the old ones in this chest. Then last summer our family moved. As the movers were unpacking my hope chest we discovered that something had fallen on it in the truck, shattering the perfect lid. I was surprised at my reaction. I have always been the kind of person who didn't really care about worldly possessions. To me things were just things. But as I watched this "thing" shatter into pieces a part of my heart shattered too. I cried. That was something that I could never get back. It could never be replaced. As I told my Dad what had happened, tears streaming down my face, he listened as he always does, and I could tell he too, felt sorrow for the loss of our creation. But then he did something else that he always does, he put things back into perspective for me. He reminded me that it was the memories and the moments we shared that were the real treasure, and nothing could take those from us. He also reminded me that we still had each other. I was very blessed to still have my daddy here with me, and if we chose to we could repare, or even build a new box. We had the opportunity to build more memories, and that didn't have to stop. I am so lucky to have my beautiful shattered box, still full of memories and dreams, and to have my wonderful family also full of memories and dreams, but more importantly filled with love.
Well, sadly I don't have any actual pictures of my hope chest in my possession. I have a lot of pictures of us doing things around it but none of the actual box, so instead, the photo I am including is of my dad. I love this one because it shows the real him. He usually comes across as this thoughtful, hard, intimidating man, but when he is with his family this whole other kind, fun side comes out, and he becomes the dad that I know and love. This picture was just a cropped shot I took when I was taking family pictures this fall, but I think it captures that side of him perfectly.
Wow, Katie! I love your piece of furniture. I remember you talking about making that box, and I'm glad that you chose this picture of your dad to include. It was perfect. Thanks for participating!
ReplyDeleteDarn you for making me cry again!That was such a beatiful story, thanks for sharing it. Jeremy and I are so blessed to have you as friends, and your parents friendship is like an added bonus to us. THANK YOU
ReplyDeleteThat was a beautiful story. I remember your hopechest it was beautiful. But I do agree with your dad :) Memories are something noone can take from us. Thanks so much for sharing this.
ReplyDeleteLove that story... tears to my eyes!
ReplyDeleteGreat post, too, by the way.
ReplyDeleteThat is indeed a beautiful story, and it is great you took the destruction of a thing so well. I remember coming home one day to find my brother's hand-carved walking stick extending from the garbage can. My reaction was to take it inside, wielding it somewhat like a weapon and ask my sister "WHY was this in the trash?" It was one of the few things I had to remember that was truly his because he had made it. She told me my father had put it in the trash, assuming it was just a stick. I was furious. You took the actual destruction of something precious better than I took the potential loss of one.
ReplyDeleteI'd be much calmer about something like that now, but I still remember demanding my father never touch that stick again. It is still among my collection of things I inherited from my brother.