I still have that knife. It’s not much of a weapon. I sometimes open letters or boxes of books with it. I still love it. It reminds me of Grandad. And Terry. It reminds me of the way I was raised—of truths and values and meanings and life lessons that I absorbed.

I now live in a cabin in the woods—the sort of place that I could only visit on vacation as a boy. Here at the Church O The Pines, I don’t feel much need of ‘protection’ from our furred and feathered congregation members. A pretty congenial bunch. But I occasionally put the knife on my belt. To go out and open a bag of sunflower seeds for the blue jays and squirrels and chickadees. To remind me of those fine things from long ago.

It is good, I think, to hold onto a few small things that call to mind values and verities we once took nearly for granted, but now find under assault. The old knife offers no protection from the great difficulties now upon us, the threats to so much we have held dear. But it, and other small keepsakes like it perhaps, can offer a different sort of defense, of security. The security of love, of knowledge—of resolve—that there are things of great value and meaning in our lives and in our society. Things we will not throw away. Things worth keeping, and defending. Always. No matter what.