My Story: Entry 2

The following is a story about me. It's not exactly a journal. And it's not really an autobiography either. I choose to see my life as a long, cohesive story. Everything fits together, and everything is full of meaning.

Entry 2: (5 or 6 yrs. old)

I remember turning my eyes to look at the back of a beige couch. The fabric bore a pattern too complicated to think about all at once. The basic color was had just enough brown that it couldn't be called white, and it was covered by a dense, criss-cross pattern of dull reds, blues, oranges, blacks, and yellows. These splashes of color were so abundant that the pattern taken altogether just seemed a solid beige, unlike any of the colors composing it.

Moments earlier, Mom had asked, "What are you looking at?"

"Um... the couch," I lied. Well, I suppose I wasn't entirely lying. By the time I answered, I was in fact looking at the couch. But when she had asked the question, I had been looking at the TV while hiding behind the couch. In retrospect, this was a pretty bad hiding place in that I was in no way hidden. My toddler logic went something like: if I can barely see the TV, then people can barely tell that I'm watching it when I'm not supposed to.

My brother, Josh was playing Super Nintendo with one of his friends, but I had already used up my weekly allowance of time on the TV. Those two boys were tall as giants. Their video game skills were a sight to behold, and all I wanted to do was watch! But I wasn't allowed to. Hence, the bad hiding place, the question from Mom, and the subsequent lie.

Mom just laughed a little at the obvious fabrication, and told me I could go watch. I understood that she knew I had been lying, but it that didn't give me pause. It only made the watching all that much sweeter. My mom gave me the best gift; she gave me the one thing I wanted most in that moment.

Looking back on this helps me to realize that being a parent is hard. Imagine that your kid, upon getting caught doing something wrong, lies straight to your face. What do you do?

A. Tell him to read a book or something so that you can talk to him later about lying (again)
B. Scold him right then and there for disrespecting you and the rules that he is well aware of
C. Let him do the thing that he wants to do anyways because you love him, and this one time of letting him get away with it won't spoil him.

In this particular instance, Mom chose C. I know that more often she went with A or B, and sometimes I even thought that I hated her for it. But this is the time, she chose C. And this is the time that I can still remember.

My Story: Entry 1

The following is a story about me. It's not exactly a journal. And it's not really an autobiography either. I choose to see my life as a long, cohesive story. Everything fits together, and everything is full of meaning.

Entry 1: (3 or 4 yrs. old)

I remember crawling up the stairs. At the time, I didn't know that the stairs belonged to a house at the end of a cul-de-sac in Valencia, which is a suburban town in the Santa Clarita Valley of California, which in turn is one of fifty of the United States of America. At the time, all I knew was the crawling and the climbing. I didn't have to crawl up the stairs; I was old enough and big enough to just walk up them. But there was something appealing about pretending that I had to. It's an accomplishment to climb a flight of stairs, but it's a tiresome chore to walk up them.

Nothing in this world, and no experience in life is inherently meaningful. The significant moments of our lives are only memorable when we see them as being important. I would argue that we only find such moments important when we see that they are connected with something bigger than the present, when we see them as part of a larger context.

When I look back on my life, I see a string that leads from one memory to the next, and it tells a story. But there are so many strings and so many stories to tell! As I jump from memory to memory, you will trace a different string, you will hear a different story, and Lord-willing you will find new stories in your own life.