Next to my writing desk is a filing cabinet.
It’s nothing interesting – a plain, matte grey industrial-looking piece of functional furniture. If I twist my neck at just the right angle, I can sometimes make out a slight shimmer that I’m sure is completely unintentional for such a utilitarian object. But I do love a bit of sparkle, so sometimes I make the effort to find it.
Other than holding the million pieces of paper deemed necessary to the existence of a family of four (now three, but Number Four’s important documents still reside here), the cabinet’s metal construction allows me to attach magnetised things to its surface. A little tub for holding pens. A small 2025 calendar to stop me booking things on clashing dates. A clip that keeps the webcam cable from falling to places I could never retrieve it from. A couple of birthday gift magnets telling me never to let anyone dull my sparkle and to sprinkle that stuff wherever I go. And some photo frames.
I only have four frames, so I needed to think carefully about what I wanted to be on permanent display beside me. One shows a woman in a red ball dress standing on a stage. That’s me, when I had singing lessons with a company that organised an end-of-year recital. I didn’t have to dress up, but I’ve always believed in rising to the occasion, even if unwarranted. I kept that photo not because of the dress, even though it’s red and long and lacy and gorgeous, but because it was all a front to cover how nervous I was, and to remember that despite a few pretty awful notes that my nerves twisted as they left my mouth, I did it. I stood in front of a bunch of people I didn’t know, and I sang two songs. I’m proud of myself for that.
The next is a photo of my father. It was used at his funeral, a few months after I snapped it. He’s looking straight at me and sort of smiling. I don’t think he had his teeth in, so a closed-mouth smile is the best he could offer. Bright and alert, his Santa-white hair swept back off his face in a right-leaning wave, he looks like the dad I remember, before illness took over.
Beside that is a picture of my parents, taken at Christmas that same year. Mum is perched on the side of Dad’s electric recliner chair, and each time I look at it, I laugh, because the first time she did that, she accidentally sat on the remote that moved the seat to help Dad get up more easily. But instead of the seat rising, it lowered, sending Dad backwards, arms flailing in surprise. Everyone had gathered around the chair for a photo and were smiling for the camera, unaware of the drama amongst them. He told Mum off then, while the rest of us tried unsuccessfully to hold in our laughter.
This time, they’re both wearing striped Christmas elf hats, which I’d brought with me and, in a moment of silliness, had plonked on their heads. They’re looking at each other and smiling. They look happy. Dad passed away less than a week later – two days before New Year’s, five days short of their 55th wedding anniversary. But, in this moment, there was joy and love in the house, and that’s what I feel each time my gaze falls on that image.
The last photo is of my sons, frozen in time in front of a piano. They’re 8 and 12, and it’s another Christmas recital deal. Both are wearing black pants and shirts with matching long piano key ties and fedora hats. My youngest has his fingers on the keys, the oldest is behind him, squashed onto the same chair. They don’t look alike, and yet in this photo, they almost do.
They played a song called Traffic Jam, a deliberately clashing piece that unintentionally perfectly represented their relationship. My husband took the photo, and he angled it just right to catch the reflection of the date on the banner behind them. 2011. Fourteen years ago, and yet I still smile and remember each time I see that image.
I’ve heard ministers say God has our images on His fridge, and He smiles when He sees them. I’ve never related to those spoken scenes, even though I get the concept behind them of a doting father. My parents never had photos on their fridge. The few pictures we had were kept safe in an album or shown periodically on an aging slide machine. But today, when I look at the framed images on the side of my filing cabinet and smile, I understand.
God loves us. That’s what it’s all about. He’s proud of us because we’re His. I adore my sons, even when they clash. I love my parents, even if one is no longer here. I am proud of myself for standing on stage despite my nerves and having a go. And in all those moments, while I was loving others and myself, God was right there, loving us too – dodgy notes, missing teeth, silly hats, super sensitive remotes and all.
❤️