Little Memories

I walked into Daddy’s room one evening and found him rubbing his aching hands, unable to even take off his socks. This man, who never complained and rarely asked for assistance, now struggled with simple dressing skills.

“Let me help, Daddy.” As I knelt at his feet and gently removed both socks, I remembered how he helped my brother and me get ready for bed when we were preschoolers. He would pull our socks off, roll them into “ice cream cones” and pretend to eat them before tucking our blankets around us. We’d laugh at his antics and ask what flavor the ice cream was. “Banana, of course. Best banana ice cream I’ve ever eaten.”

As his caregiver, it was my turn to get him ready for bed. I hadn’t thought of those ice cream socks in years, and the
memory made me smile while it eased my sorrow over my father’s increasing weakness.

Dr. Seuss said, “Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.” When I helped Daddy with his socks, I understood the value of that moment from years before, and God used it to comfort me.