A Heap of Memories

    Writing is a gift that you give back to yourself.

    Opening an old journal or manuscript is like unwrapping a prized possession that you didn't know you needed. It's better than finding loose change between the couch cushions or that long-lost left shoe underneath your bed. Re-reading words that once poured freshly from your heart is like watching reruns of your favorite show as a kid. You've seen it and can barely remember exactly how it went, but anticipation leads to remembrance and for a moment you're back there.

     I opened old boxes today that contain almost every piece of writing that I've created since I was 11-years-old. I uncovered scrap pieces of paper shoved into old journals, forgotten manuscripts, and fragments of napkins that I'd scribbled on when I didn't have the luxury of lined paper. The writing spanned from early adolescence spent in the mountains of East Tennessee to pages written as a newly wed on cold winter nights in New Hampshire. Some words were mulled over in English coffee shops and restless nights of homesickness beneath an English night sky. To properly organize everything, I had to read over my past work to put it into the correct drawer. Speed-reading turned into me sitting at our office desk and spending time visiting memory lane.

     I write to be creative, but even more than that I write to express myself. Even in an attempt to be creative, a part of me becomes exposed through characters or story line. The pages that I turned and the things that I read were written by a younger me and in some cases, a healthier me. I also read things that came from a place of desperate longing for hope. I read poems ridden with the heartache of losing my father. Only when I saw it in black ink, was I able to see the immensity of trials I have been through. Overshadowing those trials, though, was the undeniable and inexpressible hope of a life transformed.

I have felt deeply.
I wrote deeply.
I have also healed deeply--from my very soul to the outpouring expression of ink pressed to paper.

      Writing never changed my circumstances, but it did change my perspective. I would say that writing has been a savior to me, but we both know how shallow that would be. Writing, no matter how deeply appreciated or expressed is a temporal thing. Everything I have written could easily be mimicked,burnt up and turned into ash. My hope hasn't come from my self-expression, but from God. He has never left me. I dug through boxes and from one hand-written page to another--in some way or another, God showed himself to me--through sadness, rage, hurt, joy, and sadness.

When I've been afraid He has given me courage.
When I've been lonely He has given me friendship.
When I've been robbed He has restored what was taken.
When I've been hopeless He has given me hope.

       Sometimes it takes time and often doesn't come in the form of all things hoped and longed for. There are times when hope comes in the form of a long forgotten answered prayer. Then, comes remembrance. It may be hidden in boxes, but there will come a day when you open what has been in front of you and you see that all along He was there.