Do you know? Have you heard?

One of my favorite rooms in our home is an unfinished room in our basement that contains the furnace and hot water heater.  Ductwork is visible through the unfinished walls and ceiling.  A single lightbulb is affixed to a ceiling joist. It's also our "office" of sorts.  A real cozy place with random pieces of carpet on the cement floor and our grandkids' artwork taped up here and there.  My husband's desk and our printer are down there as well as file cabinets full of all manner of stuff that probably has very little significance.  And there are several shelves of books, MANY MANY BOOKS, that we've collected over the years.  

Generally I just go into that room to print things off. Our printer is so slowwwww that I have quite a bit of time to sit in the chair that's down there and just gaze around at the book titles and artwork and multi-patterned floor coverings.    

Nice way to pass the time and help me forget that I'd like a newer, faster printer.  

Every now and then I'll run across something that I consider a treasure.  
A few days ago I hit the jackpot:

Holy Bible, King James Version. With my mother's handwriting on the "presented to" page.  She even used my formal name, not "Bunny".  You may notice that the book is pretty fragile, being held together by tape.  















I hadn't seen this book for years and of course it transported me back to Christmas 1965, the date I received it.  I'm certain that 10 year-old me politely appreciated the gift.  It replaced the children's Bible that she'd given me on my baptism day a few years earlier.  

However,  17 year-old me came to really love the gift. 

If you've read very many of my blog posts you are aware that I lost my dad to leukemia a few days before Christmas in 1972, when I was 17.  I made the statement last year in my Christmas post that  "The typical stuff of Christmases past went out the door that year. And in came Jesus."    

But I didn't really elaborate on the "in came Jesus" part.  

I spent a lot of time alone during the weeks that led up to Dad's death.  In the evenings before bedtime I would be swept away in sadness.  I would pray through my flood of tears, asking God to give me strength because I just didn't know how I could live without my father.  

And during one of those prayer times I opened my Bible and read 
words that leaped off the page and into my heart.  I underlined these words.  I even memorized them in King James text. 

                                                                      Isaiah 41:13                            

And Isaiah 40: 28-31, which in modern translation says these words:

 Do  you not know, have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth.  
He never grows faint or weary, and  there is no limit to His understanding.  
He gives strength to the weary and strengthens the powerless.  Youths may faint and grow weary, and young men stumble and fall, but those who wait on the LORD will renew their strength, they will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary; they will walk and not faint.  

It was the very first time I experienced the Bible as the living word of God.  "In came Jesus", through the presence of God who spoke to me through His words that soothed my soul and brought me hope and strength.   

I experienced the Immanuel, God With Us of Christmas as these words told me that God would "hold thy right hand, saying...Fear not I will help thee".    "There is no limit to his understanding" told me that He understood my tears, he understood my pain.  "Those who wait upon the Lord will renew their strength" encouraged me to just wait on Him, trust Him,  and He would be faithful to give me what I needed to face the uncertain days ahead.

Opening this old Bible, seeing the words of truth that I underlined all those years ago..... I can't find the words to describe just what that meant to me.  Forty-five years ago as a heart-broken little girl God gave me a promise that He would be my strength, He would hold my hand, he would always, always understand me.  And He has kept his promise.  

Do you not know, have you not heard?    I pray you will know and hear.  I pray you will open the living Word of the One who created you and loves you more than you can imagine.  If you're wondering where to start, you can't go wrong with the book of John in the New Testament.  Or.....the Christmas story..... Luke 2:1-21.  

Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.  The best gift ever.  The Living Word.

  



               

Time well spent

This is what's left of a gift from my dad.  He bought me the entire set of encyclopedia books, but this is the only thing I kept after Google came into being.  Partly because I'm a word geek, but mainly because of the inside note you see here with his handwriting.  1968.  These items will never be found in a landfill.  Treasures.


My dad was a cabinet maker.  
Probably self-taught. Probably out of necessity.  He built pine cabinetry for various family members' homes.  His mother's kitchen was outfitted with some of his handiwork if I remember correctly.  Our own kitchen as well as the two other rental homes he owned also featured his kitchen cabinets.  

Functional, no-frills, not one ornate feature.  

One could describe the entire B.T. Krisher family that way.  

Daddy enjoyed working with all types of wood but walnut was his favorite.  He really appreciated the dark rich tones, textures and patterns in the grain.  And since he also loved his wife and daughters and family he built several things for each of us out of walnut lumber.  Desks, a little wall cabinet with shelf, book case.   I can say with certainty that none of these pieces of furniture would have been considered HGTV worthy.  But they were beautiful to his family.  We loved them.   Because we loved him. 

I was looking inside the doors of my wall cabinet just a couple weeks ago and discovered that the sliding door panels were made of strips of wood held together with red duct tape.  Red.  Duct.  Tape.  😁 Bear in mind that it was built in the 1960's.  The tape still holds. 

The bookends pictured at the top of this post are my favorite of his handmade gifts to me.  And, yes, there is red duct tape on the inside of the bookends.  

The desks have all for the most part fallen to pieces.  Mine is propped up against a wall in our family room with the wall cabinet sitting on top of it. Two of the desk legs are what you might call fractured beyond repair.   If there were a mild gust of wind in my family room the whole set-up would collapse.   My heart won't let me get rid of it.  My fingers almost wouldn't even type the last four words of the previous sentence.  

Some of the best times of my childhood were spent in that workshop behind the house.  Just Daddy and me.  As daughter number 4 and the last failed chance for him to finally get a son, he included me in most all of his woodworking projects.  Holding the lumber while he used the table saw or circular saw, holding the end of the tape measure, bringing him tools, helping him clamp and glue.  

Good times.   

Speaking of time...today I bought a new clock for our living room.   As I was unpacking and inspecting it, a long-forgotten memory flooded my mind.  

My dad once built a little clock for our home.  Out of walnut.  He crafted a 12" square piece of walnut and polished it up nicely then took the guts from an old clock to use for the mechanical part.  No duct tape was used this time.  And the clock worked.  I had it in my childhood bedroom on top of my desk.  I haven't seen it for years, have no idea at all where it ended up. Hadn't given it a thought until today.  

It was one of the last projects he tackled before he passed away.   It was a clock, yes, but today it occurred to me that it was more likely he was wishing he could give us time.  Which, with his leukemia, was something he was unable to do.  Our time together was oh so short.  A clock was as close as he could come.  A reminder of the precious nature of time.  

I'm not sure why this memory waited until now to come to me.  But I do know it's Christmas season.  

Many of us are making attempts to fulfill our children's "hopes and dreams" with the purchase of some trendy item that will end up in the back of a toybox somewhere, forgotten quickly.    

Or we're  struggling to find a gift for that older parent who has "everything".  

Let me offer the best suggestion ever.  Give them yourself.  Give them time with you. 

When it's all said and done and you're looking back at the years that have passed I can completely guarantee from experience you'll wish you had more time. 

 I wish I could find the clock.  But these are treasured memories of a simpler time with the man I was privileged to call Daddy.  

Time well spent. 

The year that changed Christmas forever

1972, my senior year of high school.  I was 17.  Dad had been battling leukemia for close to two years and it had been a roller coaster of both physical and emotional health. Mom continued to work because, well, she had to support us financially.    They celebrated their 37th wedding anniversary in late October and then of course the calendar was leading us on into Thanksgiving and Christmas.   

Thanksgiving that year was uncharacteristically cold and for some reason Dad started interrogating  me about my ability to change a tire during the 4 day break from school.    I assured him that Mr Campbell taught us the fine art of changing a tire during my freshman year of driver's ed.  This information didn't satisfy him and he simply insisted that we go out into the driveway so that I could prove to him that I could change a tire.  He was pretty weak, and it was bitter cold.  But he made his way out there and watched me, giving me step by step instructions.  Mission accomplished, I passed his test and we went back inside the house to warm up.  

Between that day and early December his health took a nosedive and on December 5th I watched as Mom, my brother-in-law, and my sister loaded Daddy up in the car to take him to the hospital in Salina.  I watched them drive away and as I walked back into the empty house, I had the overwhelming feeling that he wouldn't be coming home again.  

Over the next several days Mom stayed with Dad at the hospital and I went about school and my activities as much as possible, visiting him as much as I could in the evenings.  The weather was just horrible with snow and ice.  Mom had the good car in Salina, and I was driving the old Ford F150 red pickup, which we called Zip because its maximum speed was about 40mph.  Would you believe that during that period of time I had multiple flat tires on the pickup? Changed them all except one which was changed by a sympathetic passerby.  (Side note: I had never needed to change an actual flat tire before and to this day I have never ever changed a tire again)

I put up a little Christmas tree in the living room and tried to work up some holiday spirit.  But my heart was breaking little by little as I watched Daddy grow weaker and weaker when I went to visit him. He passed into the arms of Jesus on December 19.  Our hearts were relieved that his suffering was over, and our hearts were also broken into pieces at the same time.  

Christmas that year was not Christmas as we'd ever known it.  And it never would be again.   

The title of this blog post indicates that Christmas was changed forever. Changed, but certainly not ruined.  Not at all.  Far from it.  

In fact, you might be surprised to know that my heart learned exactly what the real meaning of Christmas is during those last two weeks of Dad's life.  

I spent a lot of time alone during that time.  Changing tires like Daddy had taught me to. Going through the motions of life as best I could.   Crying out to God with tears flooding my face.  Praying like never before.  Deep excruciating sadness like never before in my young life.  

The typical stuff of Christmases past went out the door that year. 

And in came Jesus.   Wonderful counselor, mighty God, everlasting Father, prince of peace.  Bringing comfort and strength that I desperately needed.  Loving as only God can perfectly love. Bringing hope even in the midst of deep sadness.   Immanuel, God with us.  God With Us.  What could be better than the very presence of Christ in our lives?  I can assure you from experience....nothing is better. 

Since 1972, the holly jolly, ho ho ho, giddy exuberance of Christmas never really happened for me again.  Losing someone you love will do that.  But it has been replaced by all is calm, all is bright, heavenly peace. Immanuel.  God with us.  The real deal.  Right there in a manger.