What epic story? Mine? Oh-kay.
Exactly which story would that be?
How ironic. Several weeks ago Debi had us dig out our own baby pics for Baby Picture Sunday. I found my baby pics, lots of them as I was the firstborn. What was missing were a few teeny details: Who are the people these pictures? Which house is that? What is this occasion? Were these pictures from the same event, or are these two different get togethers?
So, of course, I called my mom. She doesn’t remember. It was, after all, a loooong time ago. (Or maybe she doesn’t want to remember. . . she believes that the whole time she was married to my dad it was terrible and that nothing good happened.) I can’t ask my dad, either; he passed away last September. Maybe my aunt remembers? I’ll have to talk with her and ask.
So I’m sitting here with a wealth of pictures and no stories. I feel like a huge part of me is missing. I am a woman with no history. How can I see something epic in my story if I don’t know my story?
I sat down to type up this post Thursday morning. I got stuck, got a little depressed. So I got up and started cleaning my bedroom. (Heidi, you have inspired me!) (I think I’ll talk about how bad it was in there on Monday. Fair warning! :0 )
And I remembered verses like this one:
“For we are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.” Ephesians 2:10
And that is something for which I can be thankful. Even if I never find out the people and places of all these lovely photos, God knows. Knew, in advance. Before I ever did a thing. And He was ready for me to do whatever it was I did. Because He was the one Who made me.
And hey, maybe I don’t need to know about my early days. How would it improve my life to know what dress was my favorite or when I started writing my name or how old I was when I finally learned to tie my shoes?