When I was growing up, I remember that my dad always tacked a three-by-five note card to a corkboard in his home office. Neatly, he had printed words with a black felt tip marker:
“He does not delight in the strength of the horse; He does not take pleasure in the legs of a man.” (Ps. 147:10 NASB)
The card meant the world to him; it moved wherever our family moved, and we relocated a lot. Dad looked to it as a reminder that his identity wasn’t in designing custom homes, skillful carpentry, or owning a successful construction company. God’s words, transcending time, place, and personal circumstances, reassured him as a mysterious disease destroyed nerve fibers and interrupted impulses between his brain and spinal cord, slowly wrecking his muscles.
I hated Multiple Sclerosis for weakening the man who once swooped me upside down so I could walk on the ceiling. I knew I could not stroll from the edge of the yellow gingham curtains on the kitchen ceiling to the light fixture hanging in the family room without his strong arms holding me up. I loved my dad for wanting me to do the impossible.
Until adulthood, I didn’t realize the significance of my parents running a construction company together. Although Dad oversaw the construction workers and site, he and mom collaborated in all other areas of the business—client meetings, architectural and interior designs, and finances, among numerous administrative and creative tasks. I grew up watching them share and trade jobs while winning awards in the Parade of Homes and growing their successful business. … Continue Reading