A Child. . . Love Is Spelled T.I.M.E
By Lance Wubbels
In the faint light of the attic, an old man, tall and stooped, bent
his great frame and made his way to a stack of boxes that sat near one
of the little half-windows.
Brushing aside a wisp of cobwebs, he tilted the top box toward the
light and began to carefully lift out one old photograph album after another.
Eyes once bright but now dim searched longingly for the source that had
drawn him here.
It began with the fond recollection of the love of his life, long gone,
and somewhere in these albums was a photo of her he hoped to rediscover.
Silent as a mouse, he patiently opened the long-buried treasures and
soon was lost in a sea of memories. Although his world had not stopped
spinning when his wife left it, the past was more alive in his heart than
his present aloneness.
Setting aside one of the dusty albums, he pulled from the box what
appeared to be a journal from his grown son's childhood. He could not recall
ever having seen it before, or that his son had ever kept a journal. Why
did Elizabeth always save the children's old junk? he wondered, shaking
his white head.
Opening the yellowed pages, he glanced over a short entry, and his
lips curved in an unconscious smile. Even his eyes brightened as he read
the words that spoke clear and sweet to his soul.
It was the voice of the little boy who had grown up far too fast in
this very house, and whose voice had grown fainter and fainter over the
years. In the utter silence of the attic, the words of a guileless six-year-old
worked their magic and carried the old man back to a time almost totally
Entry after entry stirred a sentimental hunger in his heart like the
longing a gardener feels in the winter for the fragrance of spring flowers.
But it was accompanied by the painful memory that his son's simple recollections
of those days were far different from his own. But how different?
Reminded that he had kept a daily journal of his business activities
over the years, he closed his son's journal and turned to leave, having
forgotten the cherished photo that originally triggered his search.
Hunched over to keep from bumping his head on the rafters, the old
man stepped to the wooden stairway and made his descent, then headed down
a carpeted stairway that led to the den.
Opening a glass cabinet door, he reached in and pulled out an old business
journal. Turning, he sat down at his desk and placed the two journals beside
His was leather bound and engraved neatly with his name in gold, while
his son's was tattered and the name "Jimmy" had been nearly scuffed from
its surface. He ran a long skinny finger over the letters, as though he
could restore what had been worn away with time and use.
As he opened his journal, the old man's eyes fell upon an inscription
that stood out because it was so brief in comparison to other days. In
his own neat handwriting were these words: Wasted
the whole day fishing with Jimmy. Didn't catch a thing.
With a deep sigh and a shaking hand, he took Jimmy's journal and found
the boy's entry for the same day, June 4. Large scrawling letters pressed
deeply in the paper read: Went fishing
with my dad. Best day of my life!
a Child Love Is Spelled Time: What a Child Really Needs from You :
~ Mac Anderson and Lance Wubbels
Quotes for the day:
"Dare to dream, dare to try, dare to fail - dare to succeed."
*-- G Kinsley Wood
"Action is a great restorer and builder of confidence.
Inaction is not only the result, but the cause, of fear. Perhaps
the action you take will be successful;
Perhaps different action or adjustments will have to follow.
But any action is better than no action at all."
*-- Norman Vincent Peale
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and the content authors. All rights reserved.
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