The Desk

On beautiful Gilbert, Arizona mornings—when the sun peaks, birds sing and soft breezes blow—I am drawn to a white rocker on the patio. I am never disappointed as I again read, meditate and bask in the sunshine and God’s faithfulness to me. 

This morning as I met with my maker, I was once again greeted by the fresh scents of spring, but there was another slight smell that distracted me from my thoughts. Fresh paint! That’s it, my husband Art had taken two cans of spray paint to our sun-worn rocker the day before. 

As soon as I identified the smell, I was immediately transported back in my mind to the parsonage where I lived with my family in the mid 60’s. There I shared a room with my sister who was three years younger, but who did not share my need for neatness in all things. For my own well-being, the bed had to be made correctly, and heaven forbid, for her clothes to be scattered on the floor. I yearned for my own space, for a place that would be just mine and mine alone. As a twelve-year-old, I decided what I needed for my sanity was a desk. A desk that would be my own, where I could store my papers, homework, diary and Bible. 

As soon as the idea of a desk struck me, I began working on my father to somehow provide my heart’s desire. Life had been very hard for the Sistig household, although my parents shielded us from the pain and suffering that they most certainly endured. 

Every morning at 5:30 am my beautiful and faith-filled mother, clad in her worn bathrobe, took to her study, a room attached to our garage. There in a musty, tiny, book-filled room, she was given strength for each new day through her Bible reading and prayer. Losing both of my brothers at thirteen years old, two years apart, no doubt left tremendous holes in my parents’ hearts. Then, a major heart attack almost took my daddy just four years after losing my last brother, another painful mark. 

Even our smaller family of five (at that point) was sheltered in a much too small home. The kitchen and piano were the center of our home and existence. The bedroom I shared with my younger sister was crammed into a corner just off the dining room. 

When dreams of getting my own desk didn’t immediately materialize, I added some “punch” and asked for it for my upcoming thirteenth birthday. To my surprise, I began to get little hints here and there that my daddy was working on this treasured hope and dream. Quietly whispered questions of color and ornate drawer-pull types made me realize that the desk could be on its way. 

At last, a freshly painted 1940’s style desk arrived in our little yellow-painted room. My dream fulfilled. My own desk! To top it off, my father had a glass piece cut to perfectly fit the top of the pristine white desk. Not only would it protect the finish, but I could display important notes or pictures under the clear top. The fact that it was a resurrected, reclaimed desk … and not brand new … didn’t bother me. What mattered was that my daddy, overworked and underpaid, found time and energy to provide what I thought I needed most in my life. As I would proudly sit at the desk, or lay in bed at night, the paint smell was always evident. I associated the scent with the gift. 

As anticipated, the desk became my solace. I could keep it neat and claim it as off limits to my younger sister. Because, after all, it was mine. And then, over the next months, the stirring of quiet conversations between my parents made it apparent that we would be leaving our little parsonage and moving out of state. As we began to organize our belongings and pack up our lives and dreams, I was at least comforted that my shiny white desk would accompany me on this new adventure, to a new unknown bedroom. 

Soon, before moving day, my father came to me and shared devastating news. The treasured desk would not be coming with us. In fact, the desk wasn’t really mine after all. It was more like a borrowed piece of furniture, at best. As my father went into more detail, I tried my best to understand, but I was crushed. Because a desk wasn’t in the family budget, he had salvaged it from the church basement and secured permission to take it home and refinish it. Therefore, the desk had to be left behind, along with the other furniture that was church-owned. Pleading with him to go back and ask for the desk did no good. It was settled. The desk would stay in the parsonage for the next occupants. 

Ah, the disappointment. But, looking back, my Daddy’s integrity in the face of his daughter’s dashed hopes and crushed dream did not dissuade him from resolute honesty. For a season I was bitter about my Father’s decision. In my heart I felt I was not a priority, and his desire to preserve integrity trumped my desires. 

After working through my disappointment, I realized some important life lessons had been learned. When we don’t get what we want, resiliency can replace that desire, if we let it. Even when faced with temporarily dashing the hopes of a daughter he dearly loved, my Dad taught me to be the person who can look anyone in the eye, always committed to doing the right thing.

YES! board chair Candace was blessed by her children with a 'StoryWorth' Christmas gift. Each week this year she receives and responds to a question about her life. At the year's end, her responses are compiled in a book—to be appreciated and hopefully treasured by current and subsequent generations. We post this story with our encouragement to you to find a way to share and preserve your stories, incorporating godly wisdom along the way.