The Note Cards

January 15, 2011
It is a sad thing to drive a truck into the old, familiar driveway of our family’s home, with the intent of forever removing my father and mother.  They have lived in the same house for almost forty years.  In fact, my two younger brothers have no memories of my parents living anywhere else.    

However, my folks have been staying at my house for the last few days, and we have plans to turn this into some sort of a permanent arrangement.  Within the space of a few days, my Dad has moved to the next stage of Alzheimer’s.  My mother can no longer provide the care he will need for the rest of his life.  Were my mother in her thirties, my father would still be a handful, but she is in her seventies and struggling with arthritis.

My father has already seen his house for the last time.  It would be too disturbing to his mind to allow him to visit his old home, only to force him to return to my house thereafter.  The first time he had to wake up in my house rather than his own was traumatic enough.  We do not want to rip that Band-Aid off all over again.

My parents remodeled their house thirteen years ago.  With their sons grown and moved away, they were finally able to set aside the money to make their home nice.  I can only imagine how excited my mother must have been that she was finally getting rid of the ratty, trampled carpet, drab paneling covered walls, and 70's era mustard countertops, which may well have served their purpose for raising children but which were aesthetically uninspiring.  Professionals were brought in, and the interior of the house was gutted.  Walls were ripped out; carpet and pads were removed, exposing the bare concrete beneath.

That year, it was the end of November when the gutting of their house was complete and they were ready to begin the process of building it back the way my mother wanted it.  At the beginning of December, something devastating happened to my family, particularly to my then three year old son Caleb.  I will not go into the details of that situation, but everyone has heard of situations where parents spend everything they have to save a child.  This was one of those situations.

Without thought for themselves or the fact that it would mean living in a gutted house, my folks gave us every penny they had saved for finishing their remodel.  Then, over the months that followed, they gave us more money, in $1,000 increments, as they were able to save it up.  By their sacrifices, they tremendously helped our family in our hour of greatest need.  We have not forgotten their sacrifices for us, sacrifices which compel us to help them now.

Today, my son, Caleb, now sixteen, sat quietly beside me as I eased a U-Haul through the gate and around the circular driveway to the front door of the house.   We rattled to a stop at the front door, and fumbling with unfamiliar door handles, struggled free of the cab.  My mother was already inside; my youngest brother joined us within a few minutes.  Together, the four of us roved through the house, removing items my mother wanted loaded for transport across town.  Furniture and other goods that would not (yet) accompany my parents to their new home were pushed to the side in any haphazard manner that would ease our pathway to the truck.  The result was a decor as disheveled as the musings of my Father's mind.

As we moved things through the house shifting furniture about, looking in boxes, combing through drawers and closets, we came across interesting things.  For instance, we found my dad's shoes!  One symptom of my father's Alzheimer’s is that he is forever fretting with his shoes, taking them off, putting them on, moving them from place to place, feeling their insides with his hands, etc.  Well, about a week ago his shoes went missing.  This was not good, not only because they were expensive, but because, loosely similar to losing a child's favorite blanket, it was not as simple as going down to Wal-Mart for a replacement.  So, for the last week, my father has been wearing an older, worn out pair of shoes, and my mother has been worrying about how she was going to find new shoes that he would agree to wear.

Well, today, as we loaded the U-Haul, we needed to move a bed.  My son and I stripped away the linens, and wrangled the mattress from the bed.  There, between mattress and box springs, we found my father's shoes.  We know not what possessed him to think this was an appropriate place for his shoes, but we can be certain that were it not for them moving when they did, it would have taken a very long time to find those shoes.

Shoes were not, however, the greatest find of the day.  We found something that dwarfed the value of any shoes.  Sitting on the floor of the corner of a bedroom was a box of note cards, lots and lots of note cards.  Normally, a bunch of 4x6 cards lying around would not be all that noticeable, but when I saw these ones, they got my attention.  “Grab those cards,” I said to my son.  “Those are coming with us.”

Those note cards are treasures from my father’s mind.  For many years, my father has been in the habit of slipping away to Hardees, or Borders, or Panera Bread, where he would purchase a cup of coffee… which he referred to as paying his rent… and there he would sit for a couple hours, reading the Bible, usually in Greek.  He would always take a few 4x6 cards with him, and any time a useful, or interesting, or amusing, or otherwise salient thought occurred to him, he would write it in small, neatly lined text on a card.



Coffee, English Bible, Greek New Testament, Homemade Sound Muffling Apparatus, Note Cards, and a Pen
...Stan found out years ago that God has breakfast with men who come to Hardees this well prepared.


I have known of this habit for years.  I would frequently see a card sticking out of his shirt pocket or a few of them cast upon a desk or end table in his house.  Sometimes, I would pick one up and read it.  “He’s got some pretty good thoughts!” I would think to myself.

However, I never knew what was becoming of all of these small documents.  Were they being thrown away?  Were they scattered hither and thither throughout the house?  Was my father transcribing them to some other type of document?

Before Alzheimer’s became a problem, my father’s thoughts were coveted by many.  People whose thoughts have been profoundly changed by my father’s thinking are not rare.  When I saw that box of cards, I knew I had found a treasure trove that would be appreciated by more than just me.

As I drove the U-Haul back across town, my son sat beside me, the box of cards on his lap.  One by one, he fished out cards and read them.  Some, he read out loud, but most he read silently to himself.  He would read for a while, and then, suddenly exclaim to me, “Wow dad!  He was brilliant!”…silence again for a time, then…  “Dad, I never knew how brilliant he was!”… etc.

My mother says there are more note cards yet to be found.  She tells me my father saved them because he thought perhaps his children would someday appreciate knowing his thoughts.  I think more than just his sons will appreciate many of his thoughts, and I intend to share some of them as I update this blog.  The note cards are, in fact, one of the primary reasons for this blog, for through them, my father may continue to impact the lives of others, even from the depths of Alzheimer’s.

I add these cards to a long list of ways my earthly father has reflected for me my Heavenly Father; for my Heavenly Father also has taken care to preserve for me His words so that I might better know His thoughts.