Socks are all different and each distinct. Some are dirty to begin with, and some show dirtiness earlier than others. Some are long, and some barely show. Some socks don’t even look like socks, and if you showed one to a friend, they’d think you were crazy to call it a sock – and would give the name slipper, or fuzz. Each of us has a mental image that comes to mind when we hear the word “sock”, and it’s likely different than that of the person next to us.
The same goes for adventures. They’re all different from the last, and sometimes don’t even appear to be a true adventure. What I’d call an adventure, you might call a stroll or even punishment. My dad’s idea of an adventure is some people’s worst athletic nightmare. And frankly, some of what other people call an “adventure” just sounds too boring to me to be an adventure. But hey. They’re adventures. They’re journeys. And we each have our preference. Just like socks.
I went to New York this past week, to visit my grandmother and aunt. It was more of a blessing than I had anticipated. And also more humbling.
From sculptures towering, to lights intertwining – we made our way through Storm King Art Center. Seeing places I had seen years and years ago. Those places that I no longer remembered, yet somehow were imprinted in my mind.
And then on we went, listening to more symphonies than I ever have in my life, making memories to cherish.
We also went to West Point, where I got to see the home that I used to live in. That was quite an experience. Those faint faint memories of 4 years of age mix with stories you’ve heard..until it feel simultaneously like you know the place – and like you’ve never been there before.
Cemeteries. A place that makes me want to sit down with a notebook and just ponder. So many memories run through cemeteries – the inscriptions, the monuments, the people walking paths, and the wondering of what their stories entailed.
I always want to know people’s stories. It’s fascinating to me how people choose to be remembered; either by their own planning or that of their loved ones. What inscriptions are on their headstones? It often reflects either their deep craving to be remembered in one particular way.. or the desperate clinging desire of their loved ones for them to be remembered – and remembered for the men and women that they truly were and the impacts they made.
So many paths we walked. So much curiosity as to why. What made this path important? What memories ran though here throughout the centuries? And I don’t mean the battles. I don’t mean the momentous occasions. I mean the people who walked these floors, who struggled, wept, rejoiced, and battled on.
Which brings me to this rest stop. A historical place once bustling with people – now decrepit and rusted; broken down for everyone to see. Does that resonate in your life at all? Do you feel abandoned and broken down?
Yet look. Life grows on the rusted building. Fruit. Green. Abundant.
Oh, the places these shoes have been. And how many others have walked this way!
And again, on to the Metropolitan. So much history. So many memories. So much proclamation of how a people, a nation, a person wanted to be (or is forever) remembered.
We have this focus on how we’ll be remembered. And on remembering. But only the good stuff – or our response to the bad. Only what we want to remember.
Does this obsession make us lose track of the now? Are we too focused on the past and future and aren’t truly living the now?
Or is a balance attainable?
This post isn’t to give you a blow-by-blow of my physical journey, as much as to give a glimpse into the thought adventure. And perhaps spark some pondering in you too. Take the statements, separately and together – what resonates?
Maybe what seems like the end – like too much, like you can’t take it anymore. Maybe that’s just the beginning. But the beginning of what God has in mind. The restoration. The growth. The sanctification.
Will you take this moment and live it truly; not for your glory but for His? Or will you leave moments forgotten – until even memories and purpose fade.