Why does our personal history have such a deep impact on our lives? Why do we look back on childhood with a sense of longing? What is it about our memories that trigger both joy and pain? And what are we to do when our memories hijack our peace in the present?
I need stability. I want firm ground to stand on. Give me a solid rock or a freshly poured foundation and I will stand with my hands on my hips and smile. It sounds silly, but how do you feel when you wake up at 2am to an earthquake? .
Solid ground provides safety.
Our childhoods are the foundation for our adult lives. We often measure our present happiness by the events that brought us joy or pain when we were little. What I remember most about childhood is a sentiment that I couldn’t wait to grow up. I wanted to be big. I felt a lack of personal freedom as most of my activities were structured by adults. But the one place I never felt structured was in the country.
My Grandpa Swan had 40 acres and a log house out in Leslie, Missouri. We spent many weekends and summers there. I can still remember the anticipation of arrival, the sudden rush of excitement as we hit the gravel driveway, the squeak of the car door as it swung open and my leap into the tall grass. I knew there were critters out there. And the frogs, turtles and salamanders weren’t going to come to me. Often times, I would run down the hill and to the pond before I did anything else. I would hear my mother calling behind me, “Don’t get full of ticks!” but I didn’t care. The pond was full of frogs and snakes, all waiting to be discovered.
I explored every inch of that property. I can still remember the smell of fresh grass around that pond on a hot summer day. I can hear the grasshoppers buzzing, the redwing blackbirds calling and the plop of frogs diving into the water as I approached. I remember boredom and discovery in equal measure. My mother didn’t like me watching television all day and would send me outside to play. I wandered and wondered. I grew thirsty and went back for a cold drink of water. I would sit on the porch swing and wish I had a friend to play with. For as much as I loved nature, I also missed my city friends.
But I was afraid of many things there as well. I remember cool nights sitting in a bathtub when I would hear the coyotes yipping and howling outside. I was certain they were going to climb right up the roof to snatch me and carry me away. I remember the time my brother was bitten by a spider and his leg got infected and swelled. My mother rushed us to town to a pediatrician to get antibiotics. And then there was Harry, the snake. My aunt (only slightly older than me) lived there and had a very large python that lived in her room. She fed it rabbits. And while it certainly seemed docile, I was certain it would escape and strangle me in my sleep. After all, Harry had gotten loose in the house before.
Amid all of these experiences, I lived in the shadow of a terrible sadness. The country was the place my Grandma Swan didn’t live. She lived in heaven. And my Grandpa, my mom, and her siblings all grieved in different ways. I didn’t understand the sudden bouts of anger, the screaming, the ensuing silence. My aunt, who was more like a sister, would stare with a blank look and not respond to my questions. My mother would say, “Margaret, go play outside.” So I did. Nature was a refuge. The trees, the rocks, the creek and the creatures provided stability. They were the foundation of my childhood in many ways.
That pattern of living has carried into my adult years. When I am stressed out, scared or sad, I run to the woods. I pull up a rock and look under it. I splash in a creek. I hunt for mushrooms. But the older I get the more I come to realize that being in the woods doesn’t solve all my problems. It is not the stability I need. As an adult, my worries and cares follow me into the underbrush. Sadness isn’t always lifted by a hike down a hill into a valley.
My mind and heart race to solve my city problems even when I’m in a country setting. I feel the earth shift beneath my feet as I walk and pray. Then I remind myself that my Creator God hears my prayers and knows how I long for a solid rock to stand on.
I am often tempted to wish for the innocence of childhood, but I enjoy my freedom as an adult. One of the freedoms I hold most dear comes from the experience of trusting God during turbulent circumstances. I am not bound by ignorance of His goodness or confined by the limitations of a faithless mind. Wisdom has taught me to study the bible and the words of a very good Father who loves his children and provides for all their needs according to His riches in glory. When I was a child, I did not know the facets of God’s character that I do today. I love the way Annie Johnson Flint says it:
“His love has no limits, His grace has no measure, His power no boundary known unto men; For out of His infinite riches in Jesus, he giveth, and giveth, and giveth again.”
The freedom we have in Christ Jesus spans eternity, for in Him all the wisdom of God dwells bodily. And we are His. We belong to Him. What does this mean practically? My perspective is lifted from the temporal to the eternal. Said more succinctly, My life may be a series of memories, both beautiful and painful, but my future is a glorious unfolding of experiencing the manifold riches of relationship with God. This might sound a bit boring, a little “floating on a cloud playing a harp”, but it is anything but that. Relationship with God includes freedom from guilt and shame, freedom from worry about the present or the future, freedom to trust in an all-powerful being who can turn even the worst tragedies into a marvelous gift of grace. If it is true that Jesus conquered the grave when He rose from the dead, even death cannot stop His plans. In fact, the bible tells us we will be with Him for ever and ever. Randy Alcorn’s excellent book, Heaven, describes a place where we explore without getting tired, labor without futility, and smile without the inevitability of tears. Earth is not our forever home. So, even as I long for the idyllic days of childhood, I choose to reconcile those memories with what I know is yet to come; joy invincible!
In present day, we have psychology that encourages us to dig up the past and “deal with it”. We are told to remember so we can somehow come to terms with the terrible things that happened to us. But if we are “In Christ” and are a “New creation”, why would we dwell on the horror of His crucifixion without the beauty of his resurrection? Death is undone! Death is dead!
I was 12 years old when my Grandpa Swan sold the log house and those 40 acres. I was flooded with grief. I couldn’t imagine a life without those woods, that pond, that place. I was a child, and I couldn’t imagine a reality where I would own my own woods, pond, and place in the present. I can go back, and have gone back, but the people who made it special are no longer there. The sting of death is real, as punctuated by the beautiful memories I can never relive. In that respect, I cannot go back! But as I consider my Heavenly home, I wonder about the woods, pond and place that are yet to come. I wonder about the river of life that will heal the nations—as described in Revelation. When memories hijack my peace in the present, I turn my eyes to the memories yet to be made. For now, they are imaginings, dreams, and hopes, but eventually they will be present realities. We get a taste of what will be in the scriptures. “There will be no night there. No tears. No death.”
This is solid ground to stand on.
This is stability and safety.
This is peace.
Here I stand with my hands on my hips and smile.
Let the storm come. Let the waves roll. Jesus is Victor!
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