I’m sitting at the foot of my bed, and music is playing throughout my house.  My Adam is on the guitar, sweet Ellen is on the piano, and my heart is full of joy.  Teechino in my cup and french vanilla creamer.  String lights twinkling around my window frame.

It has been a precious week in my heart.  I had my favorite day of marriage, one that I hope repeats itself over and over and over again.  My honey and I cuddled on the couch and spent the whole evening together talking about our favorite memories and our life and our future.  We dreamed big dreams, we wished lofty thoughts, we shared secrets about what we hope for and what we pray for.  We told stories of old, old being when we were little babies.

My youngest memories are of me, at the Boys Ranch, when I was 3 years old.  My mom and dad were parents to 10 boys (plus my brother, sister, and me).  We used to pick blueberries and ride piglets.  We had a dog named Budrough, a big warehouse of food, cows and tractors, and a dinner table big enough for everyone.  I remember eating all of my dinner in 30 seconds one day while my daddy said the blessing because I was so hungry.  I remember watching Chitty Chitty Bang Bang over and over and not getting tired of it.  I remember getting stung by my first bee, running down the hill in the backyard, finding out I was allergic to kittens.  I remember falling asleep in my daddy’s arms while he rocked in the big rocking chair, and peeking up at him when he carried me to my bed at night.

Sweet memories, that I hold so dear.

I’m creating sweet memories these days too, that I want to milk.  To look back on as my stories of old and remember when I am an old lady.

Hold your stories dear too.


One thought on “Stories

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