See that worn wooden box filled with equally worn colorful blocks. My father made those when I was a tiny person. I have a vague memory of a matching set at Grandma and Grandpa's, but memories can be fuzzy like that. I remember building, stacking, and imagining all sorts of adventures with these blocks. I remember arguments with my siblings about how what what color or shape. I didn't understand the value to this gift.
Each of my children have played with these blocks. I wish I had thought to take a picture of each of them playing with the blocks, but I have the memory of them sitting just like Loaf building and chatting about something or other.
I don't think I fully appreciated the treasure my dad created until this past week as I was editing these photos. I create quilts and scrapbooks in hopes that my children, my family will feel of my love and appreciation for them. I look at these blocks and wonder what my father must have been thinking as he cut them out and painted them as only a tender parent can. Was he thinking about the hopes and dreams he had for his children? Was he worried about things only a young father can worry about?
Thank you dad for the simple treasure of a wooden box of blocks. Thank you for a life of service you offer not only me and children, but with everyone you meet. Thank you for teaching me not only by word, but by example how to have faith, to work hard, and to trust in the Lord. Thank you for being my daddy. For the bedtimes stories, the vacations, and everything in between . I love you.