Last Will and Testament

Last Will and Testament

The house was quiet. The dog was curled up on his mat and had not stirred. The kettle whistled on the stove. The French press gave forth the coffee which I now carried to my spot at the kitchen table. Beside that spot was a window which would soon bring into the room the light that would herald yet another new day. The gentle darkness created a curtain outside which obscured the world beyond from my sight.

Sitting down at the table, I looked at the case before me. At the right my coffee awaited me, with its aroma rising to awaken my senses. I was ready. I took a sip of coffee.

The zippered book case before me beckoned. How many months of disruption after my father's death had the case been carefully set aside for the right day? In a way it seemed as if it were some strange witness to the days and weeks and months that had followed as me and my four siblings mourned and navigated the sometimes changing weather of dealing with his estate. Our mother had died three years before. Helping father at that time was something of a preparation, but could not have fully prepared us for what we had faced. Thankfully we had the support and help my childhood friend who happened to be the family lawyer.

Together we had faced challenges with my eldest sister at the helm as executor. She was the best for the job, but she had had her work cut out for her.

There was no denying it, dad had been a bookworm. The seven packed shelves from floor to ceiling in his den easily testified to that truth. Some people had books on their shelves to look good, but Dad had not been one of those. His books spoke to his passion for reading and learning.

After his death his will had clearly denoted where these treasures of his lifetime of reading were to go. First, a dozen boxes had gone to the church for their library. That was likely the largest portion. All of the philosophy books had been directed to my brother. To my oldest sister went all of the art books. To my younger sister went the history books and the to my middle sister, the great literature and novels. And finally the will, had indicated this case, and its contents, were for me.

But Dad had given the case to me personally before he died in those last weeks prior to his death! “After I'm gone, wait for a good day when you can take a good piece of time with this on your own. You know that I love you son, and I always will, ” had been his words to me. Later I found it strange that he had given me this, what he had bequeathed to me, before his will was read after his death.

Finally now, I unzipped the case a drew out the book it contained, a Bible. I set the book, its weathered black leather cover worn brown at the corners on the table before me. The golden gilded letters of my father's name speaking to me as if he were in the room with me! The red cloth ribbon bookmark might as well have been saying, “Open me.”

Before I opened it I saw a little black book tucked in the side pocket of the case, it intrigued me. Seeing it I recalled when he had obtained it at one Christmas many years ago from my youngest sister. Pulling it out of the side pocket, I opened it. Inside was inscribed. “Merry Christmas Dad and a drawn heart, and below, ”These books are for you to write \ doodle\ Journal. We love you so much, thanks for all you do for us, Claire and family.” This note brought back happy memories of our family. Mom was still alive then and my sister, siblings and I had bought the package of little the black books of which this was one, for our father. He prized them. Durable stitched books. I could clearly recall, to the point of even smiling to myself at the memory of the moment he had unwrapped them. The pleasure had been written all over his face.

As I began to turn the pages, although untold years had passed since that happy day, this notebook was still in very good shape. The little black notebook pages were nearly full. Probably about 40 lines of tiny text on every page, front and back. Each page was bursting. A mental calculation suggested the book contained about seven years if one line was used per day.

His notations indicated that he had used this book every day. Each line a day, each day a chapter of the Bible and then the notation for the gospel of the Mass of the day which changes every day. Then beside there were two names a day, mostly those of my siblings and I. It was clear to me this notebook recorded his Bible readings of each day and some of his prayers for our family.

Inside the back cover of the notebook was a flap pocket where I found some items which I carefully removed. It was a collection of business cards which included my eldest sister's card for her designer / illustrator business, my middle sister’s freelance artist card, my youngest sister and my photos, and my younger brother’s online logo for his music and blogs. In behind them was a small color photo reproduction of an icon Saint Michael. I knew the story of this painting: my father had written it under the direction of a master Russian iconographer.

My parents always prayed after Mass to Saint Michael and had us pray with them. I couldn't help but think that this small reproduction was yet another way he had sought to consciously place us all under God's protection.

Putting everything back in their place, I set the notebook on the table.

My attention returned to the Bible, the red cloth ribbon extending out from the bottom of the book like the flag it was, signaling for me to open it! I opened the Bible to the ribbon and there”, Acts 3:6, it read, “Silver and gold I have none: but what I have I give to thee: in the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rise up, and walk.”

I pondered this scripture a while and realized that Dad had spoken of the spiritual life in terms of getting up and walking. “Silver and gold I have none,” what could that mean? And then I saw it in the crease of the pages. It was a yellowed, onionskin transparent stamp collector’s envelope. And in it could be clearly seen a small pile of colored stamps, five of them. Carefully I drew them out and examine them.

They from were from a bygone era and were clearly of different ages. They all bore the name of the United States of America and they were all crisp, the glue shining on their backs. The largest had a picture of a scene on it and was purple in color. The next had a portrait and was a different shade of purple. Another depicted “Teddy” Roosevelt, with glasses. Next was a sienna tinged stamp of a sculpture portrait. Lastly was the oldest looking of the five, golden yellow depicting a man in a high collar. Carefully I placed the stamps back in their envelope.

The underlined scripture verse echoed in my mind. A strange feeling came over me. It was as if my father was reading it to me in my mind, and now- could it be true- in my heart? “But what I have I give thee,” was in italics in the text of the book as if it were emphasizing those words to any reader. But I was not just any reader, and my father had directed me to these words.

Was this his last will and testament to me? As I continued to read and reflect on the commentary it became more and more clear that these words were meant for me from my father. I could feel my father's presence, and his great love for me. Dad had mentioned God to us and to me often throughout our lives together, but sometimes the words had fallen on deaf ears. All around us the world seemed to be trying to crush the dreams of the young, and my old man could only speak of this invisible God who reassured him, guided him, and now in his own words, had taken him ‘home.’

What now though, I asked myself? I looked at the time, it was nine o'clock! Where had the time gone? Seeing the small envelope of stamps sitting on the table I said to myself, “No time like the present,” and got out my phone and called my father's philatelist friend. Not too long ago he had helped us with dad's stamp collection when we were dealing with the estate.

Picking up he said, “Joseph, I thought you might call.”

“Well, I have some more stamps from Dad's collection.”

“Let me guess, a small envelope with stamps?” The question was really more like a statement.

“Well yes,” I replied.

“Your father had me select the most valuable stamps of his collection which he kept. I take it you have found them. Combined they should fetch you about $20,000, if you can believe it.”

I have to say I was overwhelmed and almost didn't believe it. Thanking him and agreeing to talk to him later I hung up and put away my phone.

I found myself saying aloud, “Deo Gratias” (Thanks be to God). My father often said this- especially when we were younger. He loved Latin which he saw not as a dead language, but rather the timeless voice and language of the church.

Pausing and looking up from the table I looked out the window, the veil of darkness was gone, the sun was now higher in the sky and I saw this world, a new world as if my father had given me new eyes. I asked myself what my father would be reading today? I could not know what his first reading would be, but his second reading of the day was always the gospel of the Mass of the day. I took up my phone once again and searched finding Matthew 7: 7 - 12. I took up the small pencil clip to his little black book and wrote the reference under his last entry. Turning to the Bible I opened it and read:

“Ask and it will be given you; seek and you will find; knock, and it will be open to you. For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it will be opened. Or what man of you, if his son asks him for a loaf will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a serpent? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask him? So whatever you wish that men would do to you, so do to them; for this is the law and the prophets.”

Closing the leather book, my eyes were misty with tears. The morning sun came through the window and seemed to rest on the name of my father on the front cover in those golden letters. Before me I had ‘the’ book, from which I had received from my father both a ‘divine legacy’ and a financial legacy one, but also here in his little black book I found a key to another legacy from the very heart of my father, the legacy of prayer.