Dad and the Discards

           In the town where I grew up, the local library placed a cardboard box filled with free books outside once or twice a year—each book’s cover removed and stamped with the town’s name followed by “Library Discard.”

          Many people walked past that box thinking it garbage. 

          But our father was a junk collector and couldn’t resist digging through a box. He really wasn’t much of a reader, but he helped himself to several books every time the library disposed of them.

          Dad chose ones he thought we girls would enjoy. Some must’ve been mighty costly in their day—filled with exquisite illustrations.

          I remember one about the history of musical instruments from the beginning of their recorded history. Gorgeous pictures! But one wouldn’t know those beautiful images lived inside the pages by the condition we found them in. All the thrown-away copies looked the same.

          Coverless. Worn.

          Discards.

          But the contents? So rich and wonderful!

          Not far from where Dad lived was a house with a “reputation.” People avoided that place, although they talked about it and the kids who lived there and wondered aloud “how many men fathered them.”

          These children. Discards.

          I didn’t know those kids—not really. Yes, we invited them to church a time or two, but their mother only slightly opened the door to answer, “Not interested.”

          A mere stone’s throw from Dad lived another “discard”—a young lady with a problem. No husband and now a baby to raise while she tried to make ends meet in a one-room apartment behind an old house.

          My high school self didn’t know this lady even existed, but Dad did. He put two & two together, crossed the street, introduced himself, and offered me as potential babysitting help.

          Thus began my evenings several times a week—playing with the baby, getting him bedded down with a warmed bottle, and sleeping beside his crib into wee hours of the morning when his mother returned from work.

          Then there were other neighbors—two women in a union as one. I don’t know if Dad was aware what went on there, but—if so—he never mentioned it. Instead, he paused along his walks to chat with the ladies—these considered “discards” by others whispering about them.

          Long after I’d left home for college, the mission field, marriage and family life of our own—the years after Mom died, Dad opted to stay in what had been our family home. My sister and I visited as often as we could.

          Father’s Day weekend 1994, Brian and I took our family for an overnight visit. I remember being shocked by Dad’s drawn appearance and said to my husband, “I won’t see him alive again.”

          And I didn’t.

          Three weeks later, Dad suffered a fatal heart attack while driving on an 8-lane highway where his broken, bruised body landed up the right embankment.

          Medics pronounced him dead at that spot.

          After the funeral, my sister and I spent weeks digging through, sorting endlessly, and discarding what we considered junk.

          As I carried out stuff and temporarily dumped items in the driveway, a girl approached the row of hedges separating our property from the next. I smiled and said, “Hi.”

          She came closer. Although young, her face bore a weariness. “Hi. I was just wondering where the man is who lives here. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

          “Oh,” I said attempting to hold back tears. “He died. I’m one of his daughters.”

          Then tears welled in her eyes. “I’m so sorry.” She paused and took a breath. “You know, I grew up down there.” She pointed in the direction of that house—the one people talked about. The one with the reputation. “Most people thought we were trash and had nothing to do with us, but your father…” she choked up a bit “…always treated me like I was something special. I loved coming to talk with him.”

          Little had I known our dad did this. Little did I know the impact he had on this girl’s life. Little may he have realized.

          Now, don’t assume Dad walked around with a halo floating over his head all the time. Not so! Much got his dander up. Oh, and he was as mischievous as they come! For example, this guy delighted in getting the attention of toddlers eating messy meals with their hands. He’d pat his own head, and the toddlers copied, much to their parents’ chagrin.

          Then there were the times we visited folks, and Dad, with the Flair indelible marker he always carried in his shirt pocket, wrote his name on the bottom of items he admired. Later in the visit he’d pick up that item, turn it over, and say, “This must be mine. It has my name on it.” And more than once the gullible folks gifted the incorrigible fella with the item.

          One of our dad’s favorite items was his screaming mirror, left in the powder room just waiting for a visitor to “excuse themselves.” It wouldn’t take long before we’d hear that awful SCREAM! Dad laughed and so did the rest of us. Of course, the visitor came out knowing full-well who to blame for that mirror-mirror gaff.

          But, despite his antics, Dad taught us an invaluable lesson.

          Love unconditionally.

          Treat everyone like special books because there’s beauty inside their “pages.” Books worth keeping even though they’ve been discarded.

          In this way, Dad showed the “discards” Jesus. Made them know someone saw value in them—simply through the gift of moments spent with them and kind words.

          They experienced unconditional love—maybe the only time they’d seen it. Maybe not. I don’t know.

          I also don’t know what’s happened to these neighbors over the 30+ years since. I wonder if they remember the man who gifted them with kindness.

          I wonder if I show unconditional love. Live it out. Treat everyone as treasured books, no matter what condition they’re in.

          May I show Jesus to others as our father did—and in this way reassure them that, as they “write their life pages,” they hold value and may even see their “stories” transform.

“Let the beauty of Jesus be seen in me,

All His wonderful passion and purity.

O Thou Spirit divine, all my nature refine,

Till the beauty of Jesus be seen in me.”

 

(from the hymn, Let the Beauty of Jesus Be Seen in Me, by Albert W. T. Orsborn—1916,

public domain—also attributed to George L. Johnson)

 

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