Others, I have done with a child at my elbow to narrate stories for me to write beside pictures or to stick stickers just where he or she wants them. I love this project. It is great fun to create something beautiful — especially when it is something that doesn’t get “undone” or messed up soon after I finish!
I have noticed as the books have come together that we have lots of pictures of special occasions: births, baptisms, big games, holidays and trips. These are all happy memories, bright and cheerful across the pages of the books. There are no pictures of ordinary days: family dinners, cooking projects, Sunday scrambles to Mass, or bedtime stories before prayers. And there are certainly no pictures of difficult times: nights in the shower with croupy infants, the shoulder to cry on when he didn’t make the team, the incessant whine of a tired 2-year-old, the all out war that gives new meaning to “sibling rivalry.”
When my children are grown and gone, will I only remember the high points, those captured in the photos and preserved in the books? Will I forget the sleepless nights and cranky days? I don’t know. But I do know that my children will never forget.
The ordinary times — the table set and meal served at 6:30 every night, the prayers said, the rhythm of our days — are the anchors of their souls. They know that home is safe and that no matter how chaotic it may appear, the underpinnings of family culture and tradition are steadfast and sturdy. They are sure that here at home, forevermore, will be good books, good food and someone to love them.
I think that the sad times, the difficult days, will fade from everyone’s memory to some degree. I don’t remember every ear infection of my firstborn; he hasn’t had one in 12 years. But I do remember that his grandmother and I held him through them all that first year and I know that he knows that he was loved. He doesn’t remember, but he knows.
I don’t remember every fit pitched in public by a shy, sensitive 3-year-old who didn’t like to talk and really didn’t ever want to leave home. He doesn’t either and is surprised when we comment that he has come a long way. He doesn’t know why my husband and I shared a good laugh (and a tear or two) when I told this child to please stop talking the other day. He talks on, sure that someone is listening with love. Someone always will listen. We waited in patience for the child to grow and, although the trying incidents are fading from memory, their marks are indelible.
It is those moments which form the character of our children. It is how they are treated and trained on the tough days that will determine who they are. Day in and day out, when the camera is in its case, every act of love or impatience, compassion or anger, is recorded in their souls. It makes a memory book seem a bit insignificant.
I plan to take a few pictures of ordinary days. I think that they will make lovely pages. We will all enjoy remembering Dad’s dinnertime antics and Mom’s bedtime stories. I don’t plan to take pictures of difficult days. For those, I will envision what that page would look like. What legacy will this difficult day leave? What lesson will be learned? What impression will it leave on the soul of a child? Every day is a clean, fresh page in the books of my children. Every day, a new chance to create something beautiful for them and for God.
(This article courtesy of the Arlington Catholic Herald.)
