Early Memories: Rays of Light

            When I first set up this blog a few years ago (in 2012), I intended to write regularly and about things I care about. As I looked back on what I had written it was clear I had stopped writing for two reasons – laziness and pride. I wanted to be better at writing, but I didn’t want to put the work into writing that it would take to get better. My intention now, if it isn’t yet apparent, is to become a better writer. I care less now whether other people read what I have written, and just want to create for the sake of creating. I don’t always have the tools at hand to record music the way I want to, but there is no excuse for me to not write for its own sake now.

            On that note, one of the things I already appreciate about trying to write everyday is that it is work. Work usually doesn’t bother me, unless it is completely pointless.  I have already come to see writing as the type of work I enjoy, and although it takes effort there is no chore to the effort. Some work is just a chore. Some work is a joy, as I think work was intended to be, but that is a story for another day.

            Tonight, I wanted to share some of my early memories (impressions) in the faith. Really, just earlier precursors to the faith. I happen to be of the persuasion that faith, although messy, is something requiring at least the bending of the will towards the work of the cross. This idea could be fleshed out a lot more, but I will also leave that for another time.

When my father was completing his degree in Christian education at Huntington College (now Huntington University) he would sometimes take me with him to the campus. I was young and remember the small pond near the dormitories before approaching the library. What seemed like a huge office of the man my father worked for was covered in books and pictures of outhouses. The dean of the graduate school treated me kindly and laughed about his nostalgic collection. Now that I am approaching midlife, I see both the humor and sadness in such a collection. Memories of places and people, of times gone by, and a changing world as well as forgotten places must have all rushed to his mind when reviewing his pictures. For a young boy still learning his place in the world, it was an odd juxtaposition of learning and crassness.

The library may have been large, it may have been small, but it was probably average for a small college, in a small college town, at a United Brethren school in the Midwest. The stacks still loom above me in my dreams, the non-descript metal clothed in beige propriety. Yet, joy was found in the stacks. I don’t remember whether I found it, or my dad brought it home first, but it was the simple animated film about John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress. The animation didn’t even move, but I was hooked at a young age. Certain images will probably never leave me. I have no idea how many times I watched the movie, but I’m sure it was several times. Bunyan’s simple language transported me into a wildly changed world which I dimly caught glimpses of faith from. Early on, Christian became a hero in a hazardous and deceitful world.  

Part of what I will remember is riding in the car with my dad. I know my dad loved me. When he returned home from school or working at church, I knew who I was in relation to him. He was my dad and I was his son.

One of the earliest memories I have with my parents is riding in a car. I have no idea where we were going. The warm, yellowed sunlight poured through into the back seat of the car and safety was there. Mirroring the sunlight, miles and miles of halcyon gold fields, maybe wheat or just late summer’s grass, flitted by as we approached a church building. My parents greeting people who are lost to time and circumstance. My father’s voice reaches out as he preached in the building and my eyes wander towards the stained-glass windows both fragile and powerful to a young child. The light now changed by the stories and memories told in reds, blue, greens, and yellows.

It could have been Kansas or south-western Missouri. It could be a real memory or the mixed recollections of dozens of trips of a happy little boy. Faith moved in my parents. Faith moved in the stories, the laughter, and the imagination of those places.

I fell and hit my head on the ice in Kewanna. My head still slightly bears the marks of split skin. The blood poured patchy and matted in my hair. In my mind today, there was a “bridge” on the east side of the building, the right side as you looked at it from the road. Today there is a white section I do not remember. We lived in the parsonage behind the church building. There was corn field; I lost my first kite in that field on a blustery Easter morning. My parents took the time to chase it down. I am sure most of the people there are faded memories or changed or missing. Fond memories I have of growing in that place, early memories of faith and hope and love. 

My parents loved me. My parents love me. I know these things from early on.