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They never seem to grow tired of hearing the stories. Their baby minds were too young to store up the memories and so as their Mama, I become the repository for the remembrances of their babyhood. So I remember for them how small they were, how they smelled, how they slept (or didn’t, in the case of my middle child), but most of all, how completely welcomed and wanted they each were. Those are happy memories and a joy to recount over and over.
But I remember the hard times too, the memories that are too painful to revisit except in quiet moments spent alone. I pull them out one by one, blow the dust off, and see each thing differently now that it’s in my past. A childhood spent separate from my father (and the knowledge that my Father in Heaven is never far away). The hurt inflicted by other children with their razor-sharp words (and realizing that my worth comes from the value God places on me, not man’s opinion of me). The exquisite pain that comes when a husband walks away from his family (learning to rely on God and not my own strength). Rejection. Infertility. Anger. Helplessness. There is value in these memories too, because everything works together for the good of those who love God, who are called according to His purpose.
So I remember it all, and I write it down for the days that my memory might begin to fail me. Because in remembering both the good and the bad, we are reminded that our unique blend of memories makes us who we are and God works them ALL together for good.