Storage Secrets

The town in which I was raised our family relocated like nomadic gypsies. While we lived in the same small berg for 14 years, we moved five times, an average of 2.8 years in each abode. We didn’t allow much time to let the grass grow before we set our sights on new digs. I’m not certain the reasons behind all these moves from one end of town to the other. I don’t think we were run out of neighborhoods for too many dandelions or breaking a noise ordinance. We displayed our washing machine in the house, not the front porch, like a redneck might. It’s not like my parents had 17 annoying children harassing the neighbors, either. Three is a pretty normal number, and we definitely were quite angelic. So, why we moved from house to house, I don’t really know unless my dad has gypsy roots. This hopping around like rabbits resulted in purging possessions frequently, although I prefer the term “simplify” much better since the former sounds too much like something we do in a toilet.

In any case, I’ve learned to simplify along the way since for many years, I too carried this gypsy gene in my veins. Until this last house in which I’ve resided for the last 11 years, I had relocated 15 times in 15 years, a measly year in each place. Goodness, a year is only enough time to move in, unpack and begin looking for a new dwelling! I felt like a squirrel scrambling up one tree, unloading a few acorns, only to set his sights on the next tree, looking for that place to call home. I didn’t have time to become a packrat or a collector of Precious Moments or Lladro. An itinerant lifestyle doesn’t lend itself to piling up possessions like Adele collecting awards at the Grammy’s.  

So, now that I’ve managed to settle down in one domicile for almost an eternity, I’ve stockpiled, stuffed and stored belongings that otherwise would have been eliminated in one of my 40,000 moves. Four overflowing bookshelves, an army of toys and ancient relics from the past threatened a coup. Thus, I embarked on a journey to eradicate unnecessary items seeking to bully us from our dwelling. My first stop, the basement storage, which hosted not only Christmas décor, but also those important artifacts from yesteryear that neither hubby nor I could bear to part with. It goes without saying that I keep a few sentimental items from the kids’ baby years, not to mention those valuable high school year books with such meaningful comments as “stay sweet” and “wish’d I could’ve spent more time with you” from friends that I haven’t talked to in 30 years.

I’m not quite sure why the man of the house complains about my growing mountain of books while he clings to Accounting and Calculus textbooks from ancient times. Surely, combs with teeth missing don’t pack sentimental value. And, why does he continue to save ski maps of Aspen and Vale from 1982? What causes us to cling to these articles that sit uselessly in the dark?  It’s like those clothes I simply can’t discard because I might wear them—someday.  Lest I place all the blame on my poor partner, why on earth do I keep research papers from college or high school unless I need to spark a bonfire? Do I really want to show my daughter my piano evaluation that displays my hapless grade on practicing and dynamics (the very things she struggles with)?  I might not be a packrat in the truest sense of the word, but what objects do I keep hidden away…just.in.case—like the two indoor water fountains that we might display someday, or the million tote bags tucked away, or the tent we’ve never used (nor will we, if I have any say). The list is endless…

And so, I simplified the storage. I emptied boxes like my 20-year-old son eats cereal. Forty-old-combs and thirty-year-old maps disappeared, and the “we might use them someday” fountains recycled. The tent was miraculously saved for “one of those years”. The storage closet, now condensed and compact like a smart car, whereas before, navigating that room was like a soldier tiptoeing across a mine field. Boxes precariously positioned and items haphazardly strewn about endangered anyone entering the room.

Cleaning out unnecessary items is cathartic. Especially for the soul. What menacing matters jeopardize my heart? What clutters my conscience? Am I hiding, harboring or hanging onto something like a child refusing to unclench her favorite blanket or stuffed animal to be washed? Do I really think I can keep anything secret from the One who sees all?

“You have set our iniquities before you, our secret sins in the light of your presence.” Psalm 90:8

So often I convince myself that if no one else knows about my anger simmering like soup, God is oblivious to it as well. Then, I read words about God creating me in the secret place, and I remember nothing is hidden from my Creator.

My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place.When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body.”  Psalm 139:15-16

He, who created me, is intimately familiar with everything that makes me tick. As I ponder this verse, I comprehend how strangely comforting this truth is. The God of the Universe knows me—the terrible thoughts, the shady secrets, the awful attitudes—and loves me in spite of what lurks in my heart. While others might recoil, Jesus embraces me. He exposes my sin in the light of His presence and invites me to experience His forgiveness, like the woman caught in the act of adultery. Her sin uncovered and accusers gone, Jesus forgives and summons her to live differently—to expunge damaging deeds done in the dark.

And so, He calls all of us to walk in the light, to eradicate concealed cargo that we grip tightly to. As we let go, our hearts can be filled with His goodness and grace. Just as our storage compartments are expunged of unnecessary clutter, so our hearts are freed from those secret sins which weigh us down.

“Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.”           Psalm 139:23-24

The Nearly Perfect Man

I can’t recall when he first coined me “Blondie,” but it’s stuck for the past forty something years—only now, I pay for the blonde to hide the gray lurking beneath. This man who oozes love, gentleness and acceptance is nearly perfect in my estimation. The faded shirt on the fence for incalculable years unfortunately hinders his ability to win Perfect Father of the Century--and maybe the doorless kitchen cupboards.

Always humble, honest, hardworking, Dad centered his life on family from day one, a miracle as great as God parting the Red Sea. Losing both of his parents by the age of 10, Dad shuffled to various relatives until his teens when he finally landed with his oldest newly married brother. In spite of so much tragedy and transition, he graduated high school, married his high school sweetheart and successfully raised three children in three states. Perhaps his days of bouncing to aunts and cousins sealed his nomadic tendency to wander. Although we resided fourteen years in one city, we transferred homes five times.  At least his transient itch never extended into marriage for he recently celebrated fifty years to the same woman. Many men, raised in more ideal situations complete with two Godly parents, possessions and a pet, don’t fare as well as my dad. How does an orphaned boy parent three kids with no role model to speak of? What’s the secret to my dad’s success as a father?

Most men learn to parent from their fathers whether positive or negative. However, my dad has little memory of his father, yet he doesn’t appear to have suffered from his lack of parental influence. From my perspective, a poor father can be more detrimental to a son’s future parenting than a father absent through death. Then again, my dad may be one of those extraordinary fathers who rose from adverse circumstances to become a stellar example.

Dad invested in his kids. I’m not just referring to handing us a few bucks now and then although he did that too. He was not only present, he was involved. A participating parent, he cuddled with us, changed our diapers and corrected us. While he never spanked us, he occasionally would admonish us if we disrespected mom.

“If you do that again, you will find out what will happen,” he’d warn.

We never wanted to find out exactly what he meant, so we stopped.

He coached our teams, cheered our games and came to our band and choir concerts. He knew our friends and our dates. We attended church together on Sundays and every other time the doors were open. He volunteered as a youth worker to keep track of us. During tough times, he encouraged us and was our biggest fan (alongside mom).  For a few years, my dad traveled quite a bit with his job. One Mother’s Day dad had just returned from travel, and we dined at a Chinese Restaurant. When the waiter seated us, the three of us yelled in unison, “I want to sit by dad!” To this day, we occasionally joke about who gets to sit by dad, much to mom’s chagrin.

The experts say the best thing a dad can do is love his kids’ mom. It’s true. Not only did we see dad’s love through his actions, he voiced his love out loud—in front of us, causing us to grimace. Some dads are stoic and barely show affection to their wives in the presence of their children. For their kids’ sake, they need to demonstrate love for their wives in behavior and words. Kids feel more secure. We did. Even though my parents bickered, because of their outward show of affection, we knew their love was strong. My dad defended my mom and was devoted to her. Many times, we attempted to pit one parent against the other until they figured out our game. We’d ask dad first because he most always said yes to whatever we asked. Somewhere along the way, they conversed and clamped down. From then on, dad backed whatever mom said. Bummer.

Unconditional love, especially for his family, characterizes my dad. Many of us tend to treat others with more kindness than our own families. My dad is an exception to this. He always had less tolerance for others outside the family.  While the three of us are as imperfect as hot chocolate without marshmallows, I’m certain he believes we are nearly perfect. He overlooks our faults as the Good Book advocates. “Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.” (1 Peter 4:8)

Many men are duty-driven, churchgoers; not my dad. His most important success as a father, by a mile, is his Godly example. When I was about two, Jesus transformed his life. He’s never been much of a Bible-thumping, preachy person; he just lived it. Kids can spot a fake a mile away. When dads act all spiritual on Sunday, but the rest of the week cut people off on the road, use the tall finger and treat people they work with rudely, their kids desire to follow Christ as much as toddlers like to nap.  Fathers don’t have to follow Christ perfectly; they just need to follow Him truthfully.

My dad stumbled, slipped, staggered. But, he also scaled, surmounted and soared. Just like all of us. He’s transparent and truthful. He doesn’t excuse; he owns up. He’s someone people can talk to and be real with. Never Pecksniffian, he exemplifies the attitude of the woman that pours her expensive perfume on Jesus’ feet at the pious Pharisee’s home.  When Simon rebukes her actions, Jesus tells him a story about two men who owe different amounts of money to a lender, one more and one less. The moneylender forgives the amounts they owe and Jesus asks who loves the lender more. Simon replies that the one whose debt is greater loves him more. After some explanation, Jesus finally says, “Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—for she loved much. But he who has been forgiven little loves little.” (Luke 7:36-50) My dad loves much because he realizes how much grace he’s been given. During any given Sunday sermon, tears slip quietly down his face as his fingers gently brush them away. He’s not afraid to show his emotion as he recalls all that God has done in his life.

Recently, I was conversing with my sister-in-law who shared with me a poem that her daughter, Taylor, wrote about her daddy. I listened to her read a beautiful metaphorical tribute to this man, my brother, as my eyes dripped like a leaky faucet thinking about my father. My brother, fathering his own three children, resembles his father in all the ways that count. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. My orphan father raised a son just like him.  

My Daddy

 by Taylor Weston

He is like a tree,

standing tall and strong.

He has been there,

as long as I’ve known,

and I know he always will be.

With his roots in the ground,

and his branches held high,

he shows me what is right.

Always patient, always calm,

he teaches me respect.

With the wind, the rain, the sun,

he continues to stand firm.

I learn from him what it is to be free,

to stay true to my beliefs,

yet still respectful and kind.

His arms spread wide,

like branches are,

for warm embraces

whenever there is the need.

And I know he loves me.

While I can’t claim authorship of this appropriately penned poem, I can adopt its words as a tribute to my own father, who at almost 70, has been an immovable tree in my own life. Over the years, I have watched my dad grow as a leader, a teacher and a mentor. His life is an exemplary act to follow. Recently, I heard a man approximately my father’s age say about him, “When I grow up, I want to be just like you.” Me too!