"There have been great societies that did not use the wheel, but there have been no societies that did not tell stories." (Ursala LeGuin)
With every winter comes the same nostalgia. My father is putting lights on the tree. Handmade ornaments are unwrapped with care. We are listening to a cassette tape labeled "Christmas Pop." Scents of Christmas fill the air.
This particular time of year I always miss reading my grandad's annual Christmas letters sent out to their family and friends across the globe. He always wrote with pride about his children and grandchildren, and I cannot help but think how proud he would have been to write of his great-grandchildren that he never got to meet.
How do you categorize a life?
Seems like yesterday we were driving from Aylesbury to Manchester to visit my dad's parents, listening to Tracy Chapman and Paul Simon in graceland with diamonds on the soles of our shoes...so many memories...I not only want to remember my story...I want to remember their stories. My parents and my grandparents. Stories of their childhood - corn shuck dolls and a pony named Tony, stories of trees in California that you can drive through...I want to tell my daughter and son these stories, these oral traditions.
I heard a man once say that one of the greatest failures in life is not forgetting to tell our children what God has done throughout the Bible, but neglecting to tell them what God has done in our lives. We should not just acknowledge God in the lives of others, but share firsthand testimonies of God's unfailing love in our lives (Gen. 26 :12-19) I am thankful for the stories of my grandparents, for the way God worked in their lives.
Maybe it's the English major in me, but I have a very literary view of the world, of life, of the Bible. Life is a story, a blank page waiting to be filled. I remember when I was interning for a 9th grade English class, I was reading paper after paper for an assignment on Christmas memories and thinking of how one day my children will write their own memories. What traditions will we impart to our children?
One day they will be looking back at their childhood, as I am now.
So I am writing these memories on our doorposts. This is the story of why we believe.
"This is the story of how we begin to remember."
I see the children of Israel standing at the Jordan River building altars lest they forget. How soon we forget. I see them eating the Passover, teaching their children and grandchildren about things they have never seen. Blessed are they who haven't seen and still believe.
This time of year I think of past and new traditions, of the joy and beauty and difficulty of living intentionally, my need for these tangible words to be my emblems lest I forget. I want to look back so I will remember...when the fig trees are in blossom and the bank account is full, when I'm gathering grapes I did not plant, when I am afraid to trust the unfamiliar, when I struggle to realize the importance of waiting, when I forget the beauty of brokenness. I think of gifts I treasure: a shadow box of emblems, a recipe book of favorite meals, a quilted purse of clothing - scraps from my grandparents' lives to help me remember them. My grandmother cherished the scraps of life. She clung to notes and was so happy to be surrounded by pictures and loved ones. She wrote a journal for her grandchildren with these scripted words: "These little stories I tell you may help to connect you to the past. As we become older we wish we had asked our grandparents more about the history of our family, more stories about the generations who lived before us." There is so much importance in jotting down thoughts for the generations that follow, to write them on your doorposts, on your clothes, everywhere lest you forget.
My mother told me this was the best way to help her grieve the loss of her parents - to talk about stories of their past.
I want to keep these memories alive for my children. My memories of two incredible people who chose one day in God's courts over a thousand elsewhere. Today, they would have been married for 65 years. They left a powerful legacy and I do not want it to be forgotten. For five years I have struggled to encapsulate their memory into words, but I have realized that stories do not have to be chronological or even perfect, just timeless. So without perfect symmetry, here are my sentiments. These are my findings of daily grace, random streams-of-consciousness flowing freely, memories that have happened and memories in the making, charred memories of candescent love and human faith.
These are my treasures in jars of clay.
These are my stones on the edge of the Jordan.
