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A post from Christmas past in memory of my earthly father whom I dearly miss:
I knew a little girl once who loved to write. She asked her dad for a little white desk that would fit in the alcove of her bedroom right under it’s window. In the solitary stillness of a winter’s night, she would slip out of bed and shuffle her pink slippers softly across the floor past her sister’s bed .. to that precious desk. There, she slowly opened the top drawer which held the steno pad and brand new pen her dad said were treasures for a real writer.
What should I write about, daddy?
Write what comes to you from the heart and write it so you wouldn’t be ashamed for anyone to read it, he told her.
So, she held the slim silver pen to the blue lined paper while, outside the window, snowflakes fell glistening on the panes like diamonds falling from heaven delivering her words. When the inspirations came she wrote and whether they brought laughter or tears, she recorded them all.
As the years passed and the child grew to a young woman, that first treasured white desk was exchanged for a new one in a new house where it didn’t snow anymore; then for a brown one set on cinder blocks in a dorm room.
There were countless desks for her over the years…but none as precious as that white one where she wrote by the light of the winter snow.
I happen to know– that though this little girl is now a grown woman, she still writes from the heart on a white desk; praying that her earthly father, who has long gone to his eternal home, is proud of her.
She often thinks of him at Christmas.
And misses him.