Think about this: if your life were a movie, what would the main story be? Would you want to watch your own life?
For your blog post this week, write a scene of your life depicting a single provoking/meaningful/memorable moment. Then discuss what made it for you; what makes memories? What makes that experience stand out, for better or worse?
Blog posts should be approximately 250 words in length. You should also post two thoughtful, reflective questions (i.e., the kind without clear-cut answers). Remember that this post is due on your blog by Wednesday, September 7th.
Don't Fly Away, Wendy
I think that my life story, so far, is a story about growing up. It's about responsibility, about learning and deciding for myself what I believe. If all of the interesting aspects of my life could be compressed into a four-hour movie, I would love to watch it. Because I love to remember, to re-collect my memories. I don't want to forget, to live in blissful ignorance. At the end of my life, which I hope is a long, long ways away, I want people to say that I lived in my own place and time, that I didn't spend my life wishing I was older or younger, near or far. I want them to say that I was here.
An Ever-Present Memory, An Ever-Present Moment
I remember when I was very young in the wintertime. It had just snowed around 12 inches, so we went outside to play in it. We dug a cave and sat in the warmer air. My dad pulled us behind the three-wheeler on an inner tube. Sometimes if we went high into the air, we would tumble off laughing and shouting. It was good to be young. My sister and I sometimes tried to push each other off. My brother went by himself; he was too big to share the tube. Then something scary that I only sort-of remember, like you remember some of your dreams, happened. My brother fell off the tube and hit his head on a piece of equipment. His face had blood on it. I don't remember if he was conscious. I just remember that Mom and Dad and Kale (my brother) went to the hospital, to the emergency room. I don't remember being there, too, so Alexi (my sister) and I must have stayed behind. It was scary. I never thought that Kale might die. I was just confused.
It turned out that he just had a concussion, and he needed a few stitches on his nose, between his eyes. In later years, my dad said that usually that equipment had sharp, metal discs attached to the part Kale hit. Dad took them off before the winter to clean them. If he hadn't taken them off, it's very possible that the accident could have split Kale's head open.
That scene is a miracle to me. It is a reminder of God's care towards us. I know that it's just as likely that Dad wouldn't have taken those discs off. I don't mean to say that Kale was spared because of our own righteousness. I mean to say that God is compassionate. It is to His credit that my brother wasn't seriously injured. So if anyone approaches me about the story of my life, you better believe that this story will be close to the front of my mind.
Why do make-believe stories seem more interesting that real life? To whom do we (should we) credit the "miracles" of our lives?
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