I’m on vacation this week, spending extra time with family and working around home. With the help of others, both family and friends, we’re making our new place our own, just as we did at our last home, over a decade ago.
After we moved into Hope House in 2009, a precious friend spent ten long days helping us develop our basement. His quiet example of workmanship and generosity made a deep impression on our then almost-five-year-old grandson (now fifteen, and willingly assisting us with work at our current home.)
Benjamin spent several afternoons at our place while Todd* worked. One day he burst into my office, face aglow. “Nana, LOOK!
Todd made this for ME—wasn’t that NICE?” Almost reverently, he held out a simply constructed birdfeeder. Another afternoon, the Titanic floated upstairs. “I made it, Nana. Todd helped.” We filled the tub so he could launch the 2x4 ship. It leaned obligingly, but refused to sink.
On Todd’s final afternoon of work, I took our afternoon coffee downstairs instead of making our friend come up. Very little remained to do.
We sat in the laundry room, surrounded by newly sheeted walls, raised with love, grit and hands still bleeding from a nail puncture. When I noticed, I fetched an alcohol swab and a bandage. Benjamin watched the repair with interest, but back upstairs, he had a question.
“Nana,” he asked, “How long did it take God to make Todd?”
“Oh, a very long time, I guess,” I answered. “There’s not many people like Todd. I think it must have been very hard to make such a good man.”
That evening, the Preacher and I accompanied Todd to the door. His shoulders stooped. He’d put in another long day, and it had taken several trips to lug his tools to his truck.
“Todd, we don’t know how to thank you,” we said.
“Pastor,” he confessed. “It didn’t look good at first. I didn’t think I’d ever finish—but I did!”
Benjamin, busy in another room, didn’t get to say good-bye to our friend. When he noticed Todd’s absence, he said, “When’s he coming back again?”
“He’s not, honey. At least not for a while. He’s done working in our basement now. The walls are up.”
Tears—large as fat raindrops—filled his eyes. My heart hurt. As a child, I too formed attachments to adults who unconsciously made deep imprints—then left again. I remember that emptiness.
After Todd left, I swept up the fresh sawdust. But first I ambled through the rooms, admiring the walls, telling God how grateful we were for Todd and his marvelous gift. Asking him to bless our friend as he had blessed us. Benjamin crouched on the floor, working on his latest project—nailing small pieces of drywall together. Suddenly, as naturally as could be, out came a heartfelt, “Thank you, God, for making Todd.” That’s all.
A little time; a little care—a child remembers forever. We will too.
