Memorial Day Memory—Remember Me and the Tarnished Silver Box
Today I set out two treasured photographs for Memorial Day, a silver box given to me by my dad, and a combat rosary given to Jon during his battle with brain cancer.
One photograph is of my dad in his Marine uniform. Another is of my beloved Uncle Charlie standing behind my dad when he was just a wee little boy.
My dad loved Uncle Charlie deeply and looked up to him his whole life. I have treasured memories of Uncle Charlie too. I loved the stories he would share with me.
Both men loved our country and understood the quiet duty and sacrifice carried within the uniform they once wore. We were fortunate to have them for many years beyond their service—not only as veterans, but as fathers, uncles, protectors, storytellers, and faithful presences woven into the fabric of our family.
And in one of those details of life that still renders me speechless and in awe of God, my dad passed away on the exact same July day Uncle Charlie died decades earlier. They were both laid to rest on the very same day of the month too.
I will never forget when a gust of wind came along and lifted the flag as the Marines stood holding it above the casket. In that moment, it felt as though heaven itself was near. The Holy Spirit—and my dad—were certainly there.
It feels fitting that today I remember them both.
As I reflected on their lives, I found myself thinking again about weathered things, tarnished silver, hidden treasure, and the beauty carried in worn vessels that have loved well through time.
Then I remembered a post I wrote six years ago in May, before life took such a dramatic turn for me. I had forgotten what I wrote, and somehow it became the gift my heart needed today as I remembered my dad.
I am sharing this reflection, Remember Me, the Tarnished Silver Box, originally written May 2020.
“I am always with you.” – Matthew 28;20
Remember Me, the Tarnished Silver Box
The lack of luster or sparkle seems to go unnoticed.
Tarnished amid circumstances often outside of our control.
Faded dreams, broken promises, feeling unseen.
We know if we polish silver, the radiance returns and captures attention.
And then, over time, the shine fades and becomes weathered once again.
We begin to discover the glow of the perfectly shiny surface is always there. But there is a beauty in the patina of the stories we carry in those worn vessels.
Sometimes the glow of the outside can distract from the beauty within.
What is hidden on the inside is the truth waiting to be told. Worn vessels hold dear stories and heartfelt meaning.
Disappointments fade over time as the sheen begins to tarnish, and a treasure is discovered.
The trophy is found in the knowing, in the triumphs, in the glory, and in understanding the truth.
Our journey through life can weather and tarnish us, but if we focus on the truth, beauty, goodness, the patina becomes the beauty and the story.
The vessel becomes the gift to behold.
Your life is a blessing and your memory a treasure. You are loved beyond measure. -Unknown
Our journey through life can weather and tarnish us, but if we focus on the truth, beauty, goodness, the patina becomes the beauty and the story.
Heather Lebano
My dad was a simple and precious man who, like all of us, became weathered and tarnished over a lifetime. At times he seemed unaware and unaffected of anything because of life’s harsh realities.
Even in his weathered and weary face, he held a treasure we all could embrace. His masterful and subtle gift was expressed in paying attention to the small and meaningful things.
Though these moments are a distant memory, my dad would often surprise me with a visit on the days my mom would get her hair done. He would drop her off and buzz over to my house, for he had only a short amount of time.
It was a stolen treasure of time where we could talk just as father and daughter. Both of us spent our days as caretakers, my father for my mother and me for my children. Since first writing these words in 2020, I have come to understand so much more about caregiving from my dad’s point of view. Being a caregiver to your spouse is holy and sacred work that asks so much of the heart.
Life got in the way, and we were never afforded much time to honor our bond. These moments are treasures to me.
The moment my dad was approaching my house, the dogs would stand guard at my kitchen door, alerting me with a bark only meant for my dad. Even today, when the dogs bark at nothing at all, I wonder if he is standing at the back door waiting to come inside. (Added 2026, the dogs my dad knew are no longer with us, but he would sure love the sweet and feisty, but quite obedient Rue.)
Sometimes I would prepare lunch or dinner for him to take home.
Sometimes he would come bearing gifts—gifts of presence, gifts of words, or gifts that let me know he knew my heart.
One such day he brought me a vintage silver box.
This box was wrapped with a large rubber band.
As my dad handed it to me, he told me to be careful with it since it was broken. He was frustrated with himself that he didn’t treat it with the care it deserved.
Carefully he showed me where the hinge was broken. This treasure, this tarnished silver box, meant so much to him.
I laughed, hugged him, and said, “Ah, It’s okay. Dad, aren’t we all broken and weathered even just a little bit? Besides, you know I love old things, vintage things, things that hold meaning.”
Tears filled his eyes and mine.
“I know!” He said. “And you love silver things.”
“I’ve been noticing you like to collect weathered silver things.”
“That is why I am giving this to you today. So I do not forget. And someday you will remember me.”
May you always recognize the subtle treasure in the small and meaningful places.
May you always know the gift you offer by paying attention.
May you discover the beauty in weathered and broken things.
May you always carry a radiance even when you are worn and weathered.
May you always feel the unwavering love of a GOoD and Faithful Father.
May you always turn your ear to wisdom and understanding.
Grief is not a disorder, a disease, or a sign of weakness. It is an emotional, physical, and spiritual necessity, the price you pay for love. The only cure for Grief is to grieve.
Earl Grollman
Author’s Note: I started to first write publicly as a way to honor my father on his first “heavenly” birthday. I wrote about the cake I “gave” to him. Writing is My Cake. Firm Grip, Let Go and More Cake
