A Chink in the Knife

After the passing of my father a few years ago, my brother and I inherited numerous boxes of his stuff. It’s amazing what all one person can accumulate during their time on this earth; and our father had actually downsized about 10 years prior to his passing. We initially sifted through as much of this stuff as we could, but it was just impossible to go through every single item he had left behind all at one time. We hastily packed all of his things into boxes to be examined more closely at a later date.

Even now, as we get time, we slowly go through these remaining boxes and try to decide what to do with all of these various items. There is everything from homemade gadgets my dad crafted and used for his camera equipment, to old blankets and clothes, to utensils, to home movies, to technical manuals, to many other wide-ranging and assorted things. As I was going through a box of these mixed knick-knacks, I came across a somewhat worn old pocket knife. I was going to toss it in the “give to charity” pile, but at the last moment, I decided to slide it into my pocket instead.

My dad was always great with his hands, and his ability to utilize all sorts of tools to build and create things he had envisioned within his own mind fascinated me. When my brother and I were kids, our father enclosed (by himself) our carport and turned it into his workshop. Throughout the years, in that very workshop, our dad made many things, but the most impressive thing he ever constructed (to me) was an airplane. He spent hours upon hours every night, after working all day, on this project. It got so involved that it once found its way into our living room for a season because he was running out of space in the garage/workshop to work on it. This didn’t make our mother all that happy and her dissatisfaction with the prickly state of affairs eventually aided in the project making its way back outside of the main house.

He formed the fuselage, wings, tail assembly and even hand-carved the propeller. The only thing I remember he ever received any help on, whatsoever, was the installation of the engine. My father had earned his private pilot’s license and upon completion of the aircraft, he actually flew it many times before selling it and purchasing a different aircraft. See, that’s sort of the way my dad was – though he thoroughly enjoyed flying and airplanes, he spent a lot of his life always looking for the “next thing.”

Growing up, my brother and I weren’t all that close to him. His dissatisfaction with himself and with life, in general, spilled over into his parenting. He grew up in South Georgia on a farm with a somewhat abusive father and didn’t receive the love and affection that children need and require. He was not physically or verbally abusive with us, he just didn’t really know how to show his love for us. He was our dad, but the emotional distance he kept between us didn’t allow us to feel a close connection with him.

It wasn’t until after we were grown and the divorce between him and our mother that he finally found the “next thing” he so desperately needed in his life. He found salvation and committed his life to Christ. Now, as big as this change was for him, it didn’t completely change his personality; he was still an overachiever. He didn’t just become a born again Christian, no, he enrolled in seminary and became an ordained Pentecostal preacher. He taught Sunday school and delivered many sermons to his church, as well as performed several weddings and funerals.

I was a grown man when I first heard him utter the words, “I love you,” to me. He had a lot of regrets and spent years repenting of his own personal sins the best way he knew how. But, in the end, I believe he finally found peace; something he had searched for most of his life. It was during this time-period that I truly and finally got to know my father. I enjoyed years of his company and looked forward to visiting and talking with him. I loved learning more about him and I relished his opinion(s) on things; even when I would disagree. It was his time with me that meant more to me than anything else. And I’m glad nothing was left unsaid between us before his death. He knew I loved him and I knew he loved me.

When I emptied my pockets later that night, I pulled out this pocket knife I had completely forgotten about and took a moment to inspect it a bit more closely. By no means did the knife look new, but it still opened and closed quite well, so the mechanics of it were intact and functioning properly. It felt sturdy in my hand, but you could tell it had obviously been used many times before it found its way to me. There were minor surface scratches speckled along the entire outside body of the knife as well as on the blade itself. Near the tip of the blade on the left side, there was a chink that appeared to have been forcibly scraped or knocked out somehow.

As I looked at this chink in the blade, I had all kinds of thoughts and ideas as to what may have caused it. I smiled because I know how stubborn my dad could be and I could just see him using the knife in frustration trying to pry something apart or to cut something away that really required a more proper tool than a pocket knife. I imagine his determination to accomplish whatever task it was he was trying to achieve with this knife. Of course, I’ll never know what actually caused this chink in the knife, but it brings me joy to picture my dad in all of the various scenarios I can come up with.

This old pocket knife, scuffed and tattered as it may be, holds more value to me than a bright and shiny, brand new and unscathed pocket knife ever could. It belonged to my dad, and, in many ways, it serves as a reminder to me of how he lived his life. I never would’ve thought that my dad and a pocket knife could share any sort of commonality, but they do. My dad struggled through life trying desperately to find where he fit. He suffered many scrapes along the way in the form of setbacks and defeat. He even had a chink or two knocked out of him along the way on his life’s journey. He endured much, which, I’m sure, at times, probably caused him to feel useless and ashamed – but, when all was said and done, he held more value to others than he could have ever imagined.

Isn’t it much like this with us sometimes? We spend so much time trying to accomplish things in our lives that we lose sight of some of the more important things and, therefore, what we are actually worth as a person. We allow ourselves to become distracted and waste time worrying about what others think. We can only see ourselves through our failures and mishaps and lose sight of our successes and achievements. We feel judged (as well as we also judge ourselves) based on the many inflicted scars we’ve collected along our path. We allow our own chinks to define us. If we could only stop and remember that these things are shallow and superficial. Our value is not found in such things. Our true value is found in what we are to others. This doesn’t mean that we should completely sacrifice ourselves, but it does mean that in order to increase our worth, we should make time for others.

We accomplish this by giving, doing and being for others. We need to give of our time to someone. We need to do something selfless for someone. We need to be there for someone in need. All of these things take our own personal time to achieve. It’s not always easy, but I believe that it is in these moments when our value actually grows.

At least, that’s my opinion.

[If you enjoyed this post, please feel free to share on Twitter, Facebook or other media!]