A TEENY-TINY BIT OF A WARNING: This blog post is more of the journaling variety than anything else. You are welcome to read it, but will most likely find it immensely boring. These are just a few thoughts I wanted to put down for my children to read someday. Proceed if you like... but don't say I didn't warn ya!
A few days ago, I read a quote. I has been bouncing around in my head ever since. I don't know who said it, or if it is a new saying (or just new to me). It said:
"...you will never know the true value of a moment until it becomes a memory."
I have always been fascinated by which moments a mind decides to hold onto and which ones it lets slip away.
I can remember the exact moment I first saw Ryan. I can tell you where I was standing (in the Manwaring Center East Ballroom), what I was wearing (a satin white blouse and black dress pants), what he was wearing (black pants, a white shirt, and a yellow tie), and what we were both doing (serving a meal to the local EFY kids-- he was carrying a pan of lasagna). But no matter how hard I try, I can't recall the first time we spoke, the first time we held hands, or even the first time he said "I love you."
I can remember, with great clarity, a summer moment on the back of a 4-wheeler, driving up and down rows of tiny Christmas trees at my Grandparent's Tree Farm. The pine needles were brushing my leg each time we passed a tiny tree. I remember thinking I was a
real country girl (a thought that makes me laugh now). Later, as it became time to sell the Christmas trees, I remember sitting in the hay ride and looking up at my Grandpa Bud-- who was driving the tractor. He looked so joyful in that moment, as he explained to the customers what to do after they choose their trees. I love that memory. I sure wish I could remember the last time I hugged my Grandpa Bud-- that is a memory that has slipped away.
I find it funny that I can't remember the color of carpet in my childhood bedroom-- due to the fact that my floor was always littered with toys. However, I have so many great memories playing "Barbie Fashion Show" or My Little Pony with my sister. I remember a game called "bunk bed elevator" that was fun and --looking back-- terribly dangerous.
I can remember the exact moment when one of my daughters put her two hands on my cheeks and very seriously asked me how long until she gets to be a grown up? I asked her why she wants to grow up so fast. She told me it was because she can't wait to be a Mother. I felt a prick of sadness in that moment, knowing that in reality, she would be grown up in what would seem like the blink of an eye. However, mostly, I felt great joy. I knew I must be doing something right, in my job as a Mother, if that little girl wanted so badly for her Mothering years to get here.
One of my sweetest memories is from when I was in 1st grade. My class was going to Hotel Utah to sing some Christmas songs. That morning, my Mother apologetically told me that she wouldn't be able to come see me sing. I remember walking into the hotel feeling sad that I wouldn't have anyone to sing to-- then I saw my Father standing in the front row. I remember singing "I'm Getting Nuttin' for Christmas", and feeling SO happy my dad was there. I don't remember my parents at any of my other school programs-- even though I know they were at all of them.
The first time I remember getting a shot was in Kindergarten. They had sent a note home informing parents that we would be getting a shot at school the next day, and that if they were opposed to that, to mark "NO", and return the note. I spent the entire evening begging my Mother to mark "no". Obviously (I realize now), she couldn't mark "no"-- I needed the shot-- but I really didn't want the shot! I didn't realize that my note was minus the needed "no" until I was at school the next day. I remember the horror I felt when I realized that my Mother
must have forgotten to mark "no". All of the children were sent to wait in a long line in the gym. Each time I got close to the front, I would get out of line and move to the back. When I realized that the line was starting to dwindle down to about 3 people, I started to cry. Everyone in my class kept saying, "It only hurt a little." I remember thinking that "a little" was more hurt than I was willing to do. Finally, after the school nurse had given me the shot (in my upper left arm), I was washed in a sense of relief that it was over. I don't remember if it hurt-- even "a little".
Another memory from Kindergarten is that I hated walking home from school (because it was scary to me). I remember that I didn't have to walk far, but it seemed far to me at the time. I remember a big tree that always seemed to have silk worms hanging down-- but that isn't what this memory is about. Each time, as I turned onto the street where I lived, I would be surprised by a
loud whistle. Each day, I would look up to see my Mother waiting for me at the end of our balcony. It was such a relief to know I was back under the safety of my Mother's watchful eye. One day I asked her to stop whistling. I don't know why I asked her to stop, but it is a request I have regretted many times since.
I remember the first time I held Cameron. I remember how his blond hair was long in the back. He was the cutest thing I had ever seen. In that precise second, I knew that I would do anything for him. I knew what it meant to be a Mother. I felt a new depth of love that I had never felt before. I knew how deeply Heavenly Father must love me. I remember how he felt in my arms. I whispered in his ear, "Hello, my son. I am so glad you're here." It amazes me how easy that memory is to recall. It could have been yesterday. I find it funny that I hold this memory so clearly, yet I cant remember his first steps, or the first time he said "Mama".
I remember the first time I saw a Prophet of God in person. I was a teenage girl in the Bountiful Temple-- at its dedication. President Howard W. Hunter was wheeled right past me in a wheel chair. He was so close that I could have reached out and hugged him (but I didn't want to be tackled by security). His presence was so powerful. I remember, in that moment, knowing that he was who he professed to be.
I remember my first night away at college. I was in my big, king-size water bed, wide awake. The trains passing through town seemed so loud. I remember thinking, "I'm never going to be able to sleep here with all that racket going on!" I felt very far from home. I was filled with so much excitement and anxiety in that moment. It didn't take too many days to get used to the trains, and for Rexburg to become my home.
I can remember the first time I had to stick up for what I knew to be right.
I can remember the first time I saw someone fall-down pass-out drunk.
I can remember my first job interview, and how ridiculously I flubbed it up!
I can remember the first time I tasted the sweet and healing fruits of the atonement.
I can remember feeling the sting of fear, betrayal, loneliness, and self-doubt.
I also recall so many times of delight, laughter, hope, and pure joy.
I wish I could remember my baptism day.
I wish I could remember when I first decided that I knew the gospel was true.
I wish I could remember when I rode an elephant.
I wish I could remember each and every second of my children's first few weeks on earth.
I wish I could remember the words that were said to me on my wedding day.
I am grateful for the ability to remember things. I don't know why some important things are recorded so profoundly in my memory, and why other important things are not. I have spent a lot of this week wondering what moments will turn into memories for my children. I doubt my Father knew, when he went to Hotel Utah to watch me sing, that it would be recorded in my forever memory. I am sure my Mother never knew how much I would grow to cherish seeing her on that balcony each day after school. I have come to the conclusion that there is no way to know when a moment will become a memory. All I can do is strive to be my best, most loving and giving self. I am grateful for each moment I am given. I hope to make every moment one that someday may (or perhaps may not) be recalled as sweet, joyful, treasured memory.
