Memory

Memory is selective. It doesn't always give us the whole picture; the truth. It is easy to view the past through the lense of our current feelings.

With broad, sweeping strokes we may write off years as bad ones, or good ones.

The truth is, that while seasons come and go in life, as surely as the natural ones do, they are never entirely great or awful. Yes, we wade through dark rivers or even oceans of grief, feeling the full force of emptiness, loss, pain. Then, we may skip though those summer meadow seasons, life a dance; full. The sun warms our upturned faces as we open our hearts wide in grateful trust and receive.

We drink deep and are satisfied with life.

Or perhaps, that is how we remember it?

In truth, the hard times are sweetened with good days, or maybe just moments, like droplets of hope on the parched tongue. And joyful, good times, can be peppered with bad days, where tears and tantrums have the upperhand. Life is all mixed up.

I've generalised over periods of my life, with sweet nostalgia or frowns and head shakes. Was it really like that? Or were the precious, laughter filled moments swallowed whole by the overwhelming struggle, the fear, the stress?

Were the wounding words and tears forgotten quickly, painted over by happy colours in the better days?

I have told myself through the years, to hold the good times tightly and the sad times lightly, but realised eventually, that there is sweetness in the sorrows, that mustn't be missed.

Facebook brought up a 'memory' that seemed to have gotten lost in my internal filtration system.

'Sat today in the GP's waiting room, while Dean had his dressings changed. Jemima started to ask questions about her daddy's op.

"Soooo, when daddy was cut open and they took something out, was it his heart?"

"Well, no,' I answered, "because he wouldn't be alive without it!"

A moment's thought.

"Well, that's good."

She inhales deeply.

"So did they take out his brains then?"

At this point I observe another waiting patient, shoulders heaving with laughter.

"Well," I say, " I guess we'll have to wait and see!"

:)

I've often referred to 2015 as my 'annus horribilis' (horrible year). I began it with Post Natal Depression, exhausted with our precious rainbow baby's rough start, hospitalised with her over Christmas with Bronchiolitis, then, as I surfaced for air, chickenpox poured its itch upon our younger children. It was hard!

As I gasped a desperate "can't take any more" prayer, Dean, my husband, became suddenly, violently sick and was soon on the surgeon's table, fighting for his life. A gangrenous gallbladder that fell apart in the surgeon's hands. His lungs failed, ventilator, Sepsis. ICU.

And all this I had to manage with a colicky baby to whom sleep felt highly over-rated!

Yes,there's no denying this was a rough time. To write it off as 'bad' though, would dismiss the small merices that lined the rocky road. God did not leave us for a moment, despite my anger, despite my shutting the door in His face.

Dean's wound healed more quickly than my heart. While he had the necessary rest to recover and come to terms with his trauma, I worked all hours to keep the family machine moving.. and to shut out the voices in my head. A poison barb, fixed itself within me.

"He nearly died." He didn't though. "I could have been left alone with all these children!" I wasn't.

Anxiety. Crippling, fast breathing, hyperventilating at check outs.

Exhausted, broken, sorry for failing. Starving for God, yet pushing Him away, angrily

. The very One whose comfort I needed most. Utter foolishness. Absolute loneliness.

A later review of facebook posts from the time, such as the funny one above, refreshed to mind the pages lost somewhere. There were actually many moments of laughter, joy, kindnesses and acts of love, scattered silently like Heavenly "I love you's" along the road of that year.

All too easily, the moments of grace are snatched away like seeds devoured by birds.

If those moments were protected, held, watered with acknowledgement and gratitude, grown with thanksgiving, they would adorn this rough road with flowers, beautifying and filling the air with their scent.

It isn't too late though. While I failed to see Father's love letters at the time, I can turn in the road and see there is a beautiful carpet of colour: flowers and grasses, growing over the stones that cut my feet.

The memories, once brutal, are softened. Sweetened. God was there. I was safe. The bitter track led me, eventually, to my dead end. There, I found transformation, I learned to let God in and trust Him, fully.

I was told. by a lovely lady in 2015, "God wants to heal your memories, Emma." I didn't understand at the time, what she meant. I do now. He healed mine. He can heal yours too.