water in a well

Memories are like water in a well. They rest still, untouched and un-gathered... until there is thirst. True friendship then becomes that vessel on the rope that helps to draw good things up from the depths... and it's hard to remember what you needed most - the water, the memories, or the friend.

Earlier today, I had the opportunity to enjoy some crepes, coffee, and good company with my friend Allie at 'The Perch' in Franklin. Our impromptu coffee-breaks are something that I really am going to miss when she moves to Portland in a couple weeks - her company always lifts me up, and our conversations get me thinking about good things. Today was no exception.

One of the things we talked about this morning has been swirling through my mind for the remainder of the day... we got to talking about our families and memories that we have of them. Memories of vacations, of quarrels, of traditions, of habits... of the homes that made us who we are, and of the people that were our home, even more real than that roof over our heads. It was good, to think about my family today. To remember, and let the waters pour over the drought that sometimes becomes part of who I am when I'm without them. I get to see them this weekend - Tim and I are driving to Memphis to celebrate both of our birthdays, and also to join with the family for an early Thanksgiving... my heart is in a state of anticipation, as it always is when I get to spend time with them again. 

And down goes the bucket, into the well - up come the memories, quenching thirst like water.

- - -

I remember family vacations.

Now as an adult, I am beginning to grasp all of the planning, the mental energy, and the money that those weeks cost my parents when Jason and I were small. I see for the first time how much of a priority and a joy we were to my father - that he would take time off of work, simply to enjoy our company and show us a part of the world he had lived in all his life, for the very first time. How thorough, and patient, and talented my mother was - to keep us occupied on all those long road trips, to keep us happy and fed - to pack our suitcases, find us hotels to sleep in... all those details that I never knew existed. The Grand Canyon, Virginia Beach, the Rocky Mountains, the San Antonio riverwalk, Disneyworld, Niagara Falls, Washington D.C., Silver Dollar City... once packed into a suitcase, now packed into all that I am. I remember it.

- - -

I remember how dad was always there with us for dinner - how I never once doubted that he would be. Now as an adult, I see how precious of a thing it is... the security I felt, all those years. I may never know what it took to keep us fed and healthy - but I know that he does, and that he remembers - and the older I get, the more I love him for that... for sparing me from some of those things. For taking them upon his own shoulders, so that of all the memories I would collect, those were ones I wouldn't have to remember.

- - -

I remember Christmas. When my grandparents were still with us - when they made it all so breathtaking... and all those Christmases since they have been with Christ - how sweet it is, to remember them and that foundation they created for all of our traditions.

I remember Christmas Eve with my brother - watching 'The Christmas Story' six times in a row, eating snacks and drinking boiled custard upstairs in our pajamas. I remember how Jason always had bed-head on Christmas morning, and it is still evident in all of our Christmas photos documented throughout the years. When I think of those moments, he still feels like my little brother. Even though I spent last Christmas in Virginia with my new husband and my new O'Neill family, there was a part of me that still walked up those same stairs with him last Christmas Eve, hands full of snacks and boardgames... there is a part of me that always will. He has blessed me with an amazing sister-in-law, he is about to be a father, he drives to a law-firm every day for work, and years ago surpassed me on the guitar and in the field of music theory... but I remember.

- - -

And how could I ever forget the awful ways I didn't fit in during Junior High, and mom and dad prayerfully deciding to try homeschooling us for one year - which turned out to be four, and changed my life forever. The money my parents spent on braces, so that I could get married someday (and the ineradicable fact that I perceived those two things to be directly related to one another). The first conversation I had with my mother about kissing a boy after church on a Wednesday night, because someone had seen us and told her. The horror.

The hours my parents patiently decided not to hear all the mistakes I made on the piano, as I worked out my thoughts onto black and white. The time and attention they gave to my heartaches, my new breakup songs, my ecstasies, my tantrums... the way they steered me to Christ at every turn, and how they hoped and prayed that He would become to me what He was to them. The way that He has become that, and is that now to me - and how that alone has brought us all closer together than any other thing they ever could have done right or wrong.

- - -

I remember the look on my dad's face last August, when he saw me for the first time in my wedding dress. I remember how tightly I held his hand, right before he walked me down the aisle. How we were both so calm - and he told me that all the planning and the waiting were over... and now, it was time to enjoy the party. How truly I knew exactly what he meant in that moment.

How much I understand him now - how incorrectly I perceived him when I was young. How truly alike we are, and how precious of a thing this is to me now... what a sweet relief, to not have to explain oneself - to not have to work alone, while processing through the circuitry of one's mind. Such a gift this has been to me - a dad who understands.

- - -

I look through old pictures, and I see myself in the face of my mother. I catch my eye in a mirror, and there she is looking back at me. I cry during a movie, and I know she would understand. I get a sore throat, and I remember all those afternoons she made me chicken noodle soup - or milkshakes - or mashed potatoes - or sweet tea... all those times she touched her hand to my forehead, covered me up with a blanket, had me sit up and sip my medicine... all the love that went into every second of it. All of her that went into every second of it.

The prayers she has spoken over me and still continues to speak over me, from 180 miles away. The way I can tell when she is happy, or busy, or stressed, or sad - all by the sound of her voice over the phone. I remember how she used to sing me lullabies, and how she would always sing in the kitchen while she cooked dinner. How much I miss grabbing lunch with her at Panera or McAlisters... how truly beautiful I think she is, and always has been.

I remember.

- - -

And now, it is my husband and I, making our own traditions together. And when he is gone, I ache for him - and when he is here with me, I feel like I am home.

We are already filling the well with our own memories - of Paris, of pumpkin patches, of grocery lists, and of early morning airport runs... memories of pursuit, of him down on one knee, of the rings on our fingers and all that they mean. I am cataloguing the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, and storing away all of the notes he leaves for me on the kitchen counter. I remember how I never thought I would find him, and I remember how long it took - and I cherish the way he looks at me, when he remembers it too... for he is most often the very friend who is here with me on the nights when we lift the bucket out of the water, and share a drink of all the things we remember... I look forward to growing old with him. I look forward to looking back on years of knowing him - and the home that I will be able to recall as I look back, remembering.

And lower, lower goes the vessel again... back to rest, inside the depths. And the memories stay safe and precious there, just like water in a well.