Words from my heart
I loved studying the Gold Rush in fourth grade. My family had just moved from Kansas to California, and a trip to Old Sacramento brought history to life. Strolling the wooden walkways with my mom, dad, and sister Charis felt magical. My mission that day? Buy the perfect souvenir. A miniature antique phone won my heart.
But now, where was it hiding?
Logic told me to search the five plastic shoeboxes in the garage, the ones loaded with my collection of little things. Hmmm, not there, so I dug through a container packed with larger keepsakes. Eureka! I found the hidden treasure nestled in a lovely stationery box along with other tiny mementos.
Opening the box and seeing my cone-shaped bell sent me back in time, back to the late ‘60s when our family still lived in Kansas. Did my affection for little things really start that long ago? I’ve always thought little things were cute, even the mouse that scampered across our floor when I was a toddler (according to my mom).
However, through the years, each little thing has become more precious.
Each thing reminds me of a special moment, a special person.
My miniature antique phone reminds me of my dad and the weekend in Sacramento. It became one of the last trips we took before he was diagnosed with cancer. And not long after, heaven called him home.
I wish I could have known my dad better, yet one specific memory helps fill the void. On the day that I asked Jesus into my eight-year-old heart, my dad held me on his lap while I cried tears of joy.
He held me . . .
such a simple,