What We Remember, What We Forget

Tonight we had fireworks at our house. I don't mean the metaphorical kind - neither in fighting or in loving - but the noisy, brilliant, just-dangerous-enough-to-be-fun kind. And, these were no sparklers and Roman Candles. They lit up the night sky and shook the farms around us mightily. (My father-in-law is a long-time expert in fireworks. I am also a certified pyrotechnician, as were the few friends who came out to help us shoot.) Even though my children are somewhat spoiled when it comes to fireworks, they haven't yet lost the excitement for the spectacle. I know they will close their eyes at 40 and remember the feeling of being wrapped up and warm, watching the stars fade and reappear behind the colorful, rhythmic strobes that their mother was sending into the sky.

You see, these are the things that we remember out of our meaningless, insignificant, chaotic evenings of fun.Children don't remember the faces of the people hovering above the forest of legs around them. We don't remember which food went with which event at which place. We don't EVER remember why we were able to have those golden moments. Instead, we remember the poignant details - the tiny things, like how hot the cider was tonight as I dipped it out of its pan on the coal stove, how the sheep got out when the first boom of the fireworks exploded, how the crisp air smelled, how the warm bread tasted... the beautiful, timeless, meaningless details.

After everyone else went home, I stayed up late, curled up on the couch, soaking in the stories my wonderful mother-in-law had to share. Her eyes lit up as she described meeting my father-in-law for the first time. Her voice and countenance dropped as she recalled a difficult miscarriage. Her anger was palpable when speaking of wrongs her children had suffered. Here I was - a young wife, listening to the stories of young wife grown older - and I marveled that there were no details.

She couldn't remember how she felt, what she said, things she did, thoughts she had. She couldn't recall the very details that I agonize over - the things I am sure I would benefit from having wise counsel about. Don't you remember feeling...? Didn't you ever wonder...? Don't you wish you had...? Did you ever notice that...?  For a moment, I doubt myself, thinking that surely this woman must always have been so self assured, so self aware, so self composed. Surely it is only ME who suffers from chronic 'what if,' 'why me,' 'what next' syndrome.

But then it occurs to me - the goodness of the Lord in how He orders our memories. How could I ever look back with joy - unhesitant, immersing, healing  joy - if the meaningless details of my childhood weren't burned so deeply into my memory? My childhood is a carousel ride of colors and sounds, feelings and people. If I knew the full and total truth, I am sure, it would gum the gears, warp the works - stop the ride.  

Likewise, how could I look forward with hope - abiding, gut-deep, fear-killing hope - if my wisest cousel was mired in the same fuzzy haze of doubt that I struggle with each day? It is enough for me to know that my greatest difficulties today will not even be a cerebral skid mark when I am old enough to share my stories with my children. (And my children's children, God willing...)

When I am an old woman, I want to take my joyful carousel ride daily, bathing myself in the sounds and senses of my youth, barely aware of having forgotten the troubling details that I live with each moment now. To be able to smile at the future, truly, is all in about what we remember, and what we forget.