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I have heard it said that real painters don’t need a drop cloth. One person who had told me that, later that same day knocked a gallon of paint off his ladder. He descended to the floor almost as quickly as the paint can had, while the spilled paint raced him across the church’s unprotected carpet!

Evidently, I am not a real painter, because I definitely need a drop cloth. Recently, I had finished painting and was preparing to fold up my large plastic drop cloth. Folding such a huge piece of material by yourself is not an easy task. I stretched my blue plastic covering across the ground, looked at the multitude of white paint droplets that dotted it, and contemplated how to best fold it up. There was no one out there other than me, but unexpectantly, I heard a voice giving me folding directions.  No, it was not the voice of God. It was not an audible voice that I heard with my ears but the memory of an actual voice that I have not heard for almost 55 years now. It was the voice of my father. He died suddenly when I was a young teenaged boy. Since then, occasionally, I can still recall his voice giving me words of wisdom and instruction. My memory took me back to a time when he taught me how to fold a large canvas tarpaulin by myself. It was almost like he was there coaching me as I lifted one corner and walked it to the other corner on one side and then on the other. I repeated that process until I finally had a neatly folded square, ready to be put up. My father said, “Good job, son!”

All those many years ago, when my father taught me that trick, I never imagined how special that simple memory would be to me all these years later. Since I was still young when he died, I don’t have many memories of my father, but I am so thankful for the ones I do have. There have been numerous times when I’ve wished I could ask him something, but he wasn’t there to ask. The awesome thing is that there have also been quite a few times, like the tarp folding, when he told me what I needed (at least in my memory) without even being there. I’m thankful we made some memories.

I am indeed blessed to have now lived long enough to see my own child grow to adulthood. Through her childhood and adolescence, I tried to make as many memories with her as possible. I vowed to spend even more time with her than my dad had with me. She and I played, worked, fished, rode bikes, wrestled dogs, built things, and who knows what else we did together. It really didn’t matter what we did, I wouldn’t take a million dollars for the times we have shared.  I prayed that I would live long enough to see her reach adulthood and God granted that. Now, I am making memoires with my grandson and praying the same prayer for him. My close encounter with clogged heart arteries a year ago caused me to realize even more just how precious this life with the ones we love is. Just this week, as Drew and I played pickleball together and then worked on a project in the woodshop, I gave thanks to God for such simple opportunities.

Dads and Moms, please take the time to make some memories that will last a lifetime. Our children will cherish them…especially after we are gone.