Like Photographs in a Hatbox.

My grandma has an old hatbox that she keeps on a shelf in her closet.
She doesn't wear hats so, naturally, she fills it with pictures instead.
Inside are photographs from throughout her lifetime: older ones of her parents in front of their new car and her brother with his banjo , another from a newspaper clipping announcing her as valedictorian; more recent pictures of her trip to The Golden State, my uncle's two cats, and her 90 mph dune-buggy ride.
If someone were to lay these pictures out, as I have done several times, they would get a version of my grandmother's story, the partially-completed version. Her life in snapshots.

I think my memory is that way.

Recalling someone merely mentioned in conversation may be difficult, but put them against a particular backdrop with something in their hand or on top of their head or in front of a new car..."light them up" a certain way...then I'll remember.

Reflecting on my freshman year of college, I see now more than ever that my memories, these pictures of my life, make up who I am. Ironically, they come back to me clearer than they ever have in this polluted, urban environment that I'm living in. At times throughout the year I felt as though these pictures had been tossed out an open window, left to fall where they may, and that I needed to catch them and put them in perfect order before they hit the ground.
I still feel that way.
But the truth is there is one who is laying them out for me. The One holding the hatbox. He sees the bigger picture...one I didn't take with my Nikon.
And it's because of Him that I can live in these scenes and backdrops that are lit up by the good that He gives.

And give thanks for the story they tell.