Keep-seek.
I know. You’re thinking I misspelled that. That it should be keepsake.
But the One Year Bible reading for today is Psalm 119:2 “Blessed are they that keep his testimonies, that seek him with their whole heart.” In other words, keep-seek.
I am surrounded by keepsakes. Everywhere I look as I write this I am reminded of my father. From where I sit in my office at the boathouse I can see the Chris Crafts he restored and which I tell admirers – “my claim to fame is I sanded them all!” Thanks to my dad’s love for wood, I am possessed of the same.
My dad is the reason that I’m even at this boathouse -- and for that matter my son-in-law over at the counter tying up flies who has two sons of his own who in turn all love this place. In fact were you to be our rowboat rental customer, Jacob, who is all of six years old, would get your life-jacket off the rack, grab a seat-cushion from the pile on the floor, a pair of oars as he headed out the door and drop half of it before reaching the dock.
But he knows what you need. He’s growing up here. Caught his first fish here. I know. I was there.
There’s the U-shaped office desk, on which sits my computer, made from the old wooden sailing-ship hatch covers that dad and mom had used for displaying endless lures, sea shells, and every imaginable -- even remotely related -- bobber and must-have bauble for the fisherman-who-has-everything’s tackle-box.
But best of all is the picture of my dad on the wall. There’s a couple of ‘em actually. One is a newspaper story recounting his battles over a lousy sandwich-board sign that belonged to dad, confiscated by the city without apology -- at least to dad. One day that apology was made to me but by then dad was gone.
There’s another picture on the wall of my dad. His bushy white eyebrows -- that occasionally he would ask me to trim for him since he could no longer raise his arms himself to do so there toward the end – are not only pale, but pale in comparison to the very bushy beard that is also very white, the wisps of whiskers not by any means spider-web organized as they form a wreath around weathered and wrinkled skin.
Furrowed brow and wisdom lines, etched and crinkled, wander away across his face and from the corners of his eyes. His freckled hands are folded on which rests his chin, his gaze indicative of a reflective mood, looking out over the lake he loved no doubt, lost in thought.
Like me. Lost in memories of my dad.
Keepsakes are all these mementoes, tangible and tender treasures.
A keepsake, said one definition very matter-of-factly, is something “that can cast a shadow.”
My father did.
And I’ve a keep-seek of a heavenly Father too. In whose protective shadow I dwell.
Image Source: http://antiworldnews.wordpress.com/2012/08/08/why-our-memories-are-not-always-our-own/
