Story Keeper

“But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.” Luke 2:19 KJV

Marissa's excellent post got me thinking about telling stories and making memories...

My first memory is from when I was three years old and attended a wedding of two of my parents’ friends. I say that it was a wedding because I was told it was many years later; at the time, I had no idea what was going on. I remember people dancing on a stage and wearing a fancy dress and being super bored, really just wanting to go outside and play on the excellent jungle gym.

Before that memory, I’ve got nothing. And really, there’s not too much after that until I tucked a few more years under my belt. It’s as if there is a giant five year hole in my memory. If that had happened at any other point, I would seek immediate medical attention, but for children that’s pretty standard.

Which is why I got totally weirded out when I realized that I am currently witnessing the Lost Years of Troy. Seriously, that’s crazy. I am living in years he won't remember. But I will. Or at least, I will mostly remember these years - pregnancy dealt a great blow to my memory after all.

I will remember him giggling when I ew his dirty socks. And the way he bounces whenever the Two and a Half Men theme song comes on. And him galloping across the living room as fast as his chubby legs can toddle, with a boisterous yell for added propulsion.

He won't remember giving kisses on command or bringing joy to the hearts of grandmas in the supermarket with his uninhibited smiles and waves. He’ll never be able to tell me of his thoughts as he sat very still on the sofa staring down the terror-beast (vacuum cleaner).

Thank God he will not remember his molars sawing mercilessly through his aching gums. Or that terrible diaper rash that chewed a hole in his tiny round tush. Or trying to play on the plastic slide while naked (it was less of a slide and more of a scoot).

It will be up to Mom and Dad to keep these snips and fragments of his life, to ponder them in our hearts like Mary did with her baby, and somehow weave them into his unique story. Even though he may not remember any part of this phase of his life, he will still have an identity to hold on to and ground him.

We do this for each other too.

Some of my deepest and most lasting relationship are with people who have the incredible ability to speak directly to my soul and remind me who I am. We take on so many roles in life that can change so drastically year by year, or even hour by hour. Student, chef, housekeeper, secretary, accountant, mother, daughter, wife, sister, bad-ass mo-fo – those are all parts I play, things I do; they aren’t at the core of my identify (except the BAMF part, that’s pretty core). When things get out of balance, when I forget, when life starts unraveling around me and the day is lost, I need someone to tell me a story: MY story.

Remember that time…