Chasing Memories

I’ve always defined my childhood as scattered.  I grew up in a military family, and every few years, we uprooted and transferred to a new duty station.  With each move, I left behind a huge chunk of my heart and everyone—and everything—familiar.  I envied my non-military friends and family—and longed for what they had: an unchanging world where they were deeply rooted and known.

Time away from my extended family was especially hard—and perhaps my biggest struggle.  In a good year, we made it back “home” to Virginia to visit family twice a year, once in summer, and then for either Thanksgiving or Christmas.  When we moved to Hawaii in my freshman year of high school, I knew we wouldn’t return until after I graduated.

Those three-plus years were hard.  My loneliness for family connection intensified.  I was missing out on the cousin fun on Sunday afternoon gatherings—they were making memories without me.  I grieved that I wouldn’t be part of the stories that would one day be retold around the dinner table.  So I clung desperately to my memories.

My fondest cousin memories were made on our great-uncle’s farm, where the opportunity for adventure abounded.  There were deep irrigation ditches to jump, trees to climb, and itsy-bitsy frogs to catch.  We collected eggs, picked juicy red tomatoes, shucked corn, and snapped beans.  We chased lightning bugs and played hide-and-seek well after dark.  Our silly scripted plays brought side-clutching laughter, and, often, a visit by a parent who issued the quiet-down look.  On hot summer days we swam in the murky Pasquotank River, where we’d come home smelling like swamp kids.  I fell asleep to the symphony of night sounds, and woke to the sun peeking through sheer curtains that danced in the morning breeze.

On warm nights, I’d venture out to the front porch with the adults.  Light from the living room lamp spilled out the window, casting shadows and painting silhouettes. The metal glider clanked rhythmically, and the rocking chairs creaked against the aged wood.  I anticipated what I knew was certain: when the familiar stories of days-gone-by would be retold.  I’d listen intently, and allow the tales to take me to places I’d never been and connect to kinfolk I’d never known.

After graduation, I was anxious to reconnect with my cousins. However, as I’d feared, things had changed drastically.  Carefree silliness had been stolen by time and replaced by the weight of pending adulthood.  I had missed out on countless adventures, and I wasn’t a part of their stories.  They had grown up without me.   

As a young adult, I moved to Florida, and my trips to Virginia became even more infrequent.   After each visit, I returned home with a lingering sadness for the memories I’d never had the chance to make—and a deep longing for what might have been.

Over the past couple of years, I’ve had the opportunity to spend more time with my cousins.  At first, there was an element of awkwardness on my part—I felt I’d always be an outsider because I didn’t grow up alongside them in Virginia—but, thankfully, that feeling faded.

As we sat around the dinner table and I listened to them talk about childhood things—things I’d missed—I realized that their experiences weren’t as glittery and shiny as my memories.  While I had missed out on a lot of good, I’d also missed out on the not-so-good.  I never experienced the grumpy side of my grandmother or was on the receiving end of her sharp tongue. I missed out on the family expectations, disappointments, and squabbles.  I noticed, too, that the hard times had been like a heavy blanket and suffocated the good.   

Recently, I made a road trip back to Virginia to celebrate a milestone birthday.  I spent time with a slew of kinfolk: aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins, and once-and-twice removed cousins.  We talked about the old days, but this time it felt different—and I couldn’t put my finger on the reason why.

Later in the week, I drove past my grandparents’ houses—something I try to do when I’m in town. I expected the usual onslaught of emotions—the joy of how loved I’d felt within those walls, the sadness and regret of all I’d missed, and the lament of the if onlys.  Yet emotions didn’t accompany my memories—and, much to my surprise, neither did the longings of my heart.

In one glorious moment, I had a supernatural “ah ha!”  What I’d defined as scattered, the Lord had gathered.  I’d been looking for connection with the familiar, to know and be known.

With every move and change, I had counted my losses—yet failed to count the gain.  I may have physically left the familiar behind, but getting pushed out of my comfort zone as a kid taught me resilience. I’m still in touch with my childhood friends. I didn’t have to be rooted in Virginia to have family connection.  And while I may have missed out on being part of the stories told around the dinner table at family gatherings, not a single moment of my God-written story is missing.   

Most significantly, I realized that everything I’d been longing for, I’ve had all along:  I am fully known and loved by God.

So from now on, just as I chased lightning bugs on those country, childhood summer nights, I’ll joyfully chase my memories. I’ll hold them close for a moment, treasure their value and purpose in my life, and then release them...until the next time they visit.    

You have searched me, Lord, and You know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; You perceive my thoughts from afar.  You discern my going out and my lying down; You are familiar with all my ways.  ~ Psalm 139:1-3