The memory of the just are blessed

(A column by Erica Kingston published in the Tri-County News.)

[November 18, 2012]

I wrote last about our family time capsule. It has since been opened, dug through, seen and shared. 

All these years I had been excited to see what I put in the capsule when I was four. I knew my parents had put in a cattle sales agreement and a publication of some sort. My contribution ended up being a candle holder and a quote carved in clay that was obvious someone else had written for me. Disappointing. 

Others had put Sears catalogs, newspapers from the towns they had been living in. There were baby shoes and photos. Typical things. 

But then there were two letters sealed in Ziploc bags. One with "Lindsay" on the front of a plain white mailer envelope and one with "Erica," written in dad's handwriting. 

My letter was a single page, front and back. I sat there and read it at the kitchen table with tears and a heart full of thanks for this gift my dad had decided to give us 20 years earlier, not knowing where we or him would be in that future that had just become the present hour. 

I cannot tell you how I felt reading a letter from a man that has been gone for three years.  Or now seeing his handwriting was so warningly familiar. The letter is invaluable and irreplaceable and on the top of the list of things I would quickly grab if my house started on fire. It is a gift that cost no money and five minutes to complete but it tugs at my heartstrings like nothing else has. 

I've been writing things down for my son Jack since he was born. Jotting, really. I have Post-Its and napkins of scribbled stories and "firsts" with their appropriate dates. I began a notebook for him with moments that made me feel full of love as well as difficulties he has made me face and "man times" that Jack and his dad have spent together. 

But I haven't written in the book for a few months. It just gets pushed to the bottom of the daily list, after dishes and laundry and trips to the grocery store. It's something that I keep telling myself I'll have time for later. It's not going anywhere, I can write anytime I want. 

But the truth is that memories are fleeting. Our minds so graciously forget and the vividness of the moment gets hazier with each day. What I could have written in great detail today will be a generalized anecdote in a week. 

I need to make the time. 

If God decides to take me while Jack still needs a mama, I want my baby to have those notebooks full of our stories. If I live to be 105, maybe my son can read those pages to my great grandchildren. And maybe what I write will simply give me something to read and remember when I'm sitting in the nursing home. 

Whatever the case may be, recording our history is vital to me. The dishes can wait, the dust can stay a day longer and the laundry can pile a little higher. I need to remember what is important. 

"Find the time. The time to read, to smell the flowers, to paint your dreams, to have coffee with a friend, to learn a new craft, to write a letter, to bake a surprise cake, to go somewhere special, to really be with the person you love, or even to do nothing for a while…"

And unsubscribe to Netflix for a while, put the computer away, shut the phone off, unplug the TV, take a day off. 

I'm not saying that I think everyone and their uncle should write pages and pages and record every little thing. I'm just saying to put a photo album together or make a phone call or spend a few more minutes at the dinner table. 

Because we don't have all the time in the world. It's so easy to get caught up. I've said this a million times over. It's so easy to get into a routine and slide through every day. But when you think back, you don't remember the days that you simply survived, you remember the ones that were an adventure, the ones that were challenging and the ones you really lived. 

"The memory of the just is blessed." Proverbs 10:7a