Really old memories are hard because although they seem so real, it's hard to know if you remember them correctly. One of those few really old memories for me occurred on our way to Nebraska in 1976. Our family picked up and moved from Utah to Nebraska in 1976. My father was starting a new farming venture. It reminds me a little of homesteading, I guess seeing as it was all kind of primitive in a way. Anyway, I would have been just over 2 years old and we were moving in the dead of winter - going from freezing cold to surface of Pluto cold. I do know that for some reason, our old blue truck broke down in the middle of Nebraska (at least I believe that was the vehicle we were in - someone please correct me if need be). I don't remember a lot, but I do remember a brief, but important memory of actually being towed to the nearest town while we rode IN the truck (our truck). I also have this random thought all the time about this that we were eating raisins. Dad was riding in the tow truck, I believe. Kind of a strange, hazy memory, but...
It is the first memory I have of a trial that our family/parents went through. The first of a never ending life of them. Seems that our parents rarely, if ever, have caught a break in life. Something was always breaking, failing, not working as planned, etc. I sit here laughing out loud because it is almost a ridiculous truth, and has been such a defining part of my life. Fitting that one of my earliest memories is of a trial. All I know is that my father and mother have always been in trial and they have somehow always made it work. I think my parents are some of the last pioneers - not in age, but in spirit.
I always thought I was so different from my parents, but one quality I have learned from my parents is to persevere, to never quit, to never give up. When there is little to hope for, they muster up more faith until they find more hope. It has rarely rewarded them in the eyes of the world, but what an amazing and powerful gift they have given to me. I now see my life mirrored in my parents at times. I have seen it done - the ability to hope and to faith your way through life's difficulties. I hope I can pass that message on to my children because I find it of high value - it is in a way, the spirit of repentance, redemption, and the gift of enduring to the end.
I look back at a small space many years ago where 3 small kids, their mother, and their hopeful father found light to cling to on a lonely and dark path. For some must push and some must pull...all is well, all is well. If there are saints and pioneers of that spirit, my parents will someday walk with a lighter path.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Thursday, April 10, 2008
My First Memory...
My first memory is appropriately, of my mother. I can't remember where we lived at the time, or how old I was, but amazingly I had to have been younger than 2 years old because it was prior to our family moving to Nebraska in 1976 (I was born in 1974). Who knows how I remember this, but I do. It is a brief, but vivid memory.
I think when you are the one who has to get up early, it's easy to forget that others have done the same for generations. I remember one early morning - still pretty much dark in my memory - I was lying just inside the kitchen entrance, with my blanket and at least one small toy. I have always had this picture of a green toy tractor or something like it. I also can clearly see in my mind, my pajamas - the complete jumper that zips up from the foot to neck - the ones with the plastic/rubber on the bottom of the feet. Who knows why (or why any young child) was up so early, but there I was.
Almost immediately after my memory begins, I see my mother enter coming towards me from the other room and she crosses over me, talking to me as she does. I don't know what she was saying, but I am sure it was something like, "why are you up so early, you crazy kid?!" My mother goes straight to the stove where she begins to work - most likely making breakfast for my father before he goes to work.
Thinking back, there is a great and calming feeling from that memory, a surety that comes from the constancy and sacrifice of my mother. How many breakfasts did she make for me over the years? For others? How many does she still make? It's an amazing thing. I could always count on a breakfast being organized by my mother - most of the time it was something like pancakes, eggs, sausage, bacon, toast, and all those great things you get as a special breakfast now. I never remember going without food for breakfast.
There is something amazingly comforting and humbling about that. I guess it is fitting that my first memory is of my mother's early rising to a new day, a breakfast to begin a day, and the comfort that it brings me to remember that our days, my days, rarely started without my mother being there and helping to start it off right. Most fitting because she has always been a cornerstone for my life, being an anchor of faith and dedicated to the needs of others. Not sure I would want anything else as a first memory. Thanks to my mother for always getting up and lifting us up with her each morning.
I think when you are the one who has to get up early, it's easy to forget that others have done the same for generations. I remember one early morning - still pretty much dark in my memory - I was lying just inside the kitchen entrance, with my blanket and at least one small toy. I have always had this picture of a green toy tractor or something like it. I also can clearly see in my mind, my pajamas - the complete jumper that zips up from the foot to neck - the ones with the plastic/rubber on the bottom of the feet. Who knows why (or why any young child) was up so early, but there I was.
Almost immediately after my memory begins, I see my mother enter coming towards me from the other room and she crosses over me, talking to me as she does. I don't know what she was saying, but I am sure it was something like, "why are you up so early, you crazy kid?!" My mother goes straight to the stove where she begins to work - most likely making breakfast for my father before he goes to work.
Thinking back, there is a great and calming feeling from that memory, a surety that comes from the constancy and sacrifice of my mother. How many breakfasts did she make for me over the years? For others? How many does she still make? It's an amazing thing. I could always count on a breakfast being organized by my mother - most of the time it was something like pancakes, eggs, sausage, bacon, toast, and all those great things you get as a special breakfast now. I never remember going without food for breakfast.
There is something amazingly comforting and humbling about that. I guess it is fitting that my first memory is of my mother's early rising to a new day, a breakfast to begin a day, and the comfort that it brings me to remember that our days, my days, rarely started without my mother being there and helping to start it off right. Most fitting because she has always been a cornerstone for my life, being an anchor of faith and dedicated to the needs of others. Not sure I would want anything else as a first memory. Thanks to my mother for always getting up and lifting us up with her each morning.
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