Originally posted: 09/29/20
Itâs been a journey, thatâs for certain.
God is in it all. The mundane, the crazy, the life-altering zesty life things that come at us every day. But how often do we see it? This blog was about sorting boxes but the God Echoes would not stop coming. They are in italics.
Boxes. Boxes and boxes. In these boxes are memories. Baby shower cards and diplomas and finger paintings. Coins and yearbooks and a newspaper from the day each child was born.
I am not a saver by any stretch and my beloved children will tell you that I am practical to a fault. So why are there so many boxes on my dining room table?
In all fairness, I blame my mother.
Back in ye olde days of April, when the world was ending, my motherâs somewhat panicky voice â the one that lives in the back of my head â spoke up:
âWhat if?â
What if I lose the last fifty years of memories to fire or earthquake or some other chapter of Revelation? To locusts or rats, or *gasp* outdated tech?
What if the world ends and I havenât organized it yet?
We canât let that happen.
And so, in April, I gathered every box from the basement, attic, and closets. Cleared out under the bed and emptied my cedar chest with one goal in mind: turn all of this overwhelming why-did-I-save-that pile of flotsam into a future-proof time capsule.
A little Noahâs Ark.
When the world as we knew it was going to end, God thought it was important to bring the past forward into the new future, too. My fifty years counted. Noahâs 600 years counted. For better or worse, we canât act like they didnât happen. God does not erase our past, He offers a better future. The mosquitos and the ants were on the ark.
I opened the first box and lifted out an infant onesie, covered in tiny yellow bumblebees, stained on the front, snaps in place, and I was undone.
And now I know how Noah must have felt on the other side. And why he needed a drink. We donât get to go backwards. Be still, my heart.
The child that wore this tiny scrap of fabric is no longer interested in it, but I was transported instantly to a place where he was. I was holding the memory for him. Literally.
If there are parts of our past that are too heavy to carry, poop that happened in the infancy of our relationship with Him, entire boxes of memories we would rather forget, know that He holds those closest to His heart because it represents how much youâve grown. He wouldnât trade that journey for anything.
My memories will never mean as much to anyone else as they do to me. And thatâs okay. I would like to keep them, please, just not in so many boxes.
Itâs nice to know God has an attic that stretches to infinity. Iâll let Him keep the boxes.
The next generation has no concept of my anxious task. Their memories go directly to the cloud.
You see? Safe. He likely decorated that attic door with a rainbow or two. Typical proud parent.
Mine are in a cloud, too. A dust cloud. I march my memories, two by two, across the scanner, and this, too, results in another memory.
The Year Mom Sorted the Boxes.
It took Noah over a hundred years to pull the ark together. He probably paced himself. I guess I shouldnât whine about six months.
The little time capsule, filling and thrilling, reminds me that life is full of good memories when you stop and pay attention to them.
And now I can carry them on a lanyard around my neck, close to my heart.
Mom always said, âLook where youâre going.â Since the past is not where Iâm going, I will only spend a little more time looking down instead of up. Whatever happens next, my past and my future sit safely in The cloud. And we will not be forgotten.
Itâs now August of 2025. The scanning project is right where I left it five years ago.
In a box.