Years ago, my father gave me an old hall tree—one of the antique oak furnishings discarded from his office at work. On Daddy’s own hall tree at home, and on every doorknob, nail, or hook in his bedroom hung his weathered hats and wrinkled clothes. When my dad finished working in the yard or on an antique car, he would promptly deposit his stained pants and faded work shirts on the nearest “hang up” spot— for repeated wear the next day (or until Mom could sneak them out for laundering).

After my father’s death a few years ago, Mom returned a few of Daddy’s hats to me—some I had given him years before as gifts. Now my hall tree holds some of the hats he once hung in the foyer of his home.

In a sense, the branches of that “tree” symbolized a restful holding place where I could store my prayers, memories, and concerns. Whenever I passed by that oak structure, I remembered particularly the times we prayed for my father. For over twenty years, we deposited prayers for his health—from the first heart attack until his last heart beat. The first time he literally passed from life to death to life again. It was only a minute—sixty seconds—but I’m sure it seemed like eons to my mom until the doctors shocked his heart back into an even rhythm. A few years later another attack followed, but again he survived.

Shortly after Dad’s early retirement, the doctors discovered a blockage, following a routine cauterization. My father needed open heart surgery. I asked God, “Like the biblical King Hezekiah, please give Daddy at least fifteen more years.”

My father’s schedule slowed down somewhat, but God answered our prayers and gave him more time. He still managed to pastor and help smaller churches for several years. But eventually Daddy’s heart began to weaken. Even a pacemaker couldn’t help.

One sunny day on the front lawn Daddy stooped down to inspect the front flowerbed. When Mom found him, his six-foot-four frame lay prone on their manicured lawn. Mother, holding him in her arms, tried to help him up, but his strength had vanished. A man who had always believed, “I can,” whispered to her, “I…just…can’t…make…it.” And then he was gone.

Like many who struggle with grief, my system shut down for a time in shock. Questions flooded like a river: “Why didn’t I call sooner?” “Why did he have to leave this world so soon?” “Could I have done more to help?” And memories of the past rushed to my mind as I replayed the tapes of childhood, teenage, and adult years.

I had hung some of those memories on the hall tree. One was from a Christmas a few years before Daddy died. Not known for extravagant gifts, (Daddy was quite frugal—we kidded him for being “tight”) his gift to us kids that Christmas caught us off guard. It wasn’t the cost—in dollars—but the time spent in preparing that gift that meant so much. As the family gathered together for the grand opening, my father mysteriously disappeared and returned with a tape recorder. Then, with our mouths gaping open and tears trickling down our faces, we listened to our “gift.”