The Box
As excited as Blake had been to see Debbie, he was now even more excited to see his mom. He called her on the way back to the airport.
“Hi, Mom! How are you?”
“Everything is wonderful here. How about you?”
“Good. I’m in Napa Valley.”
“Napa? Why are you in Napa?”
“I just met with Debbie Brewster.”
“How is she?”
“Healthy, happy, and helpful, as usual. She said to tell you hello. I have a question. Debbie told me about a book Dad was working on when he died.”
“Yes, what about it?”
“You never mentioned it,” Blake said.
His mom offered no response.
“Do you know if Dad had any notes or maybe a manuscript at the house?”
“I’m sure his notes are here, somewhere . . .” she offered hesitantly.
“Do you have plans tomorrow morning? I know you like to play tennis on Saturdays.”
“No, we’re off this weekend.”
“I’ll come by the house tomorrow morning if that’s okay.”
“Come early and you can have some pancakes,” she said. Blake could hear the smile in her voice.
The next morning, Blake was up earlier than usual. He drove the hour across town to his mom’s house, arriving just in time for breakfast.
“This is a pleasant surprise—I really didn’t expect to see you this early.”
“The pancakes, Mom—you knew I wouldn’t miss them,” Blake said, sounding like a hungry teenager.
As the two sat and chatted, Blake quickly turned the conversation to the book.
“This book must be important to you.”
“Debbie said Dad researched it for years.”
“Yes, he did. We even visited a few places during our family vacations so your dad could talk to people about how to better serve his people.”
“Now, that helps bring a few things into perspective. I always wondered about some of our stops during family road trips. Where are his files?”
“In the attic. When your father died, it was so unexpected I couldn’t deal with it.”
“I remember—all of us were struggling,” Blake said with his own painful flashback.
“You were away at school; I just didn’t want to walk into the study and see his things. So, I hired movers to box everything and put it all in the attic.”
“How much is there?”
“A lot. But I think I can help. The movers didn’t box the book stuff.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dad did that himself. He had a special box—for years, it sat in the corner of his office.”
“Will you know which one it is?”
“Let’s go find out.”
The two made their way to the pull-down steps leading to the attic. The springs on the steps creaked as Blake pulled on the ring. He went up first, found the light switch, and called his mother. In the back corner of the attic, they found at least a hundred boxes.
“Okay, how are we going to find the box?”
“Look for one that looks different,” his mom said.
“You’re right, all the boxes look the same—from the movers, I guess.”
Slowly, they began to move boxes, occasionally looking to see what treasure might lie in wait—mostly papers. Blake was reminded his dad grew up in an era before digital storage became the norm.
After a few minutes, they spotted a box that looked different. It was slightly smaller and visibly older than the others.
“Mom, is this it?” Blake asked, holding the box closer to the single light bulb illuminating their search-and-rescue effort. “What are these letters on the side of the box—NHH?”
“I don’t know. I never noticed them before,” she said.
“Let’s take it downstairs and see what we have,” Blake said.
After they descended to the kitchen, Blake looked at the box, wondering what he would find inside. His current challenges aside, this was his dad’s work—a chance to learn from him, something Blake had longed for since the day his dad passed away.
His mother broke the silence: “Are you ready to open it?” She began to cry.
“What’s wrong? Mom, are you okay?”
“No, I’m not. Your dad loved me and you with all his life, but he loved his people, too. He wanted to serve them. He struggled with how to do that well. That’s why he started putting things in this box.” She spoke through her tears. “The week before he died, he told me he was ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“Ready to write the book! All the years of our marriage he had been searching, striving, and seeking. For a long time, he felt he was looking for one final piece, something that would make the picture complete. Whatever it was, the last piece of the puzzle, he finally found it—he was ready . . . he was so excited, as excited as I had ever seen him since the day you were born. He found what he was looking for, and then he died.”
Through her tears, she looked at Blake. “Who knows? Maybe you can write the book.”
“Me? Mom, have you lost your mind? I’m not the guy. I’m really struggling just to lead my organization. I don’t need to write a book—I need to read one!”
“Hopefully, the answers you need will be in this box,” she said.
Blake opened the box, and they both peered in. Not knowing what to expect, they were both under-whelmed—no beam of light, no chorus of angels, nothing—just a box of papers, notes, photos, maps, and clippings from magazines and newspapers. There were also a couple of paperback books, one on the civil rights movement and another on Renaissance art. At first glance, it was an odd mix of artifacts with no apparent system at all—no file folders or rubber bands holding items together. Honestly, it was a mess. They just looked at each other.
“I guess this is what a book looks like before it becomes a book,” she said.
They both laughed.
Blake gave his mom a big, long hug. “I miss him,” she said as they embraced.