DAD'S TOOLS

I couldn't recall when I last saw it, but my late father's vintage brass nesting screwdriver set was definitely lost. This unique tool –I'm guessing it dated to the 1950s--had a screw-off cap that hid more tiny screwdrivers. I do know he stored it in the kitchen “junk drawer” with screws, nails, pliers, a small hammer, and other quick-repair items. Cleaning out after my parents' deaths in 1978, that was one tool I “re-homed” for myself in one of my kitchen drawers in a special box for small tools.

I'm usually careful about returning tools after use, but for some reason last year I lost that screwdriver. We searched fruitlessly in my my husband's tool boxes and through other kitchen drawers. I was sad to lose it . Not only had I kept track of it for almost half a century, it was a poignant reminder of my dad who died too young at 63 of a heart attack, just months after my mother died of cancer. At that time, I was only 31, still single, and not ready to be an “orphan.”

But I had my dad's tools, and a heritage of his gritty, don't-give-up determination nurtured in the Great Depression. He faithfully fulfilled his role as husband, dad to two daughters, and patient caregiver to two demanding Siamese cats. Every Sunday our family was in church where he belted out (off-key!) the hymns he loved.

He was a steadfast employee, working as a chemist and quality control person most of his adult life for a mill that produced cardboard boxes. When he came home from that noisy, stinky mill and changed from workshirt-and-tie into his “chore clothes,” he'd “chill” a while after dinner. But those dad-tasks would eventually beckon: yard and house care (sometimes using that multi-piece screwdriver), reading to his young daughters, and paying the bills. For that, he entered the electronic era, balancing the checkbook with his hand-size calculator powered by a 9-volt battery.

When I came across it on his desk after his death, I knew I wanted to keep it as a memory as well as something practical for me. Though its functions didn't go beyond square root, it did get me through a grad school statistics class. Now it helps me balance our checkbook.

I have other mementos of my parents, but the screwdriver and calculator seem to especially remind me of my good family heritage. Of fixing things. Of the virtues of budgeting. Of the blessing of being raised in a home with a caring, responsible husband and father.

By the way, I did find that screwdriver this spring when uncovering patio furniture on our deck. It had sat all winter on a bagged cushion propped against the kitchen window whose screen I'd pried off to wash it. Probably distracted, I left it behind and forgot about it. Finding it (a bit rusty but still useful), I remembered my dad's humble, diligent lifestyle.

So yes, I'm celebrating my “found” multi-piece tool. But this Father's Day, I'm also celebrating my dad—he'd be 107 had he lived—who passed on the genesis of growing faith that “tooled” me to live for Jesus.