My Memory Box

Spring cleans are always entertaining in my house. My dad is quite the hoarder; my mother is positively ruthless. Somehow, they reach a happy medium. I like to think that I am somewhere between the two.

There are some things you just cannot bring yourself to throw away. As my grandmothers both fervently believe: you never know when you might need it. For me, there are many material things in my life that remind me of special occasions; the Order of Service from my Baptism and Confirmation Service, a selection of birthday cards from my eighteenth, the ticket from my first 'proper' date to the cinema when I was eleven, and most recently the Barbie that sat on top of my nineteenth princess birthday cake. It is for these things that I have a Memory Box, which I keep in my wardrobe in my room. Whilst I frequently add to it; I less frequently take time to go through it, and remember why those things were special to me.

A few days ago, when I tried to add a few photos to my Memory box, I noticed that it was getting rather full. It was time for a clear out.

Amongst an array of many forgotten souvenirs, I found a collection of letters which mean more to me in the world that anything. They are letters and postcards from a teacher who taught me in year Two, but remains to have been one of the biggest inspirations in my life. She brought life and vivacity to my education, alongside love and care. She would dance on the tables when someone in my class got something right, and I will never forget the day that she gave me a housepoint for using the word 'presumed' in a conversation with her about my homework. Apparently this was unheard of vocabulary from a seven year old, which probably proves how much of a geek I am more than anything else. When she left the school a couple of months later, we stayed in contact. She gave me her address so that I could send her copies of my stories (she was very encouraging of my creative writing....) and our friendship blossomed into phone calls, letters, postcards and afternoon teas.

When I was thirteen, my mum received a phone call from my good friend. She was in Switzerland, where her husband was working; and had been diagnosed with secondary cancer of the kidneys. It was a goodbye call that I believe was purposely not made to me as it would have been too painful. She passed away a matter of months later. I will savour the memories I have of her and everything that she was; memories too great to put in a box.

I also discovered some random writings collected over several years of my faith; most importantly a collection of prophecies that people had heard about me from God. It is fair to say that I am often quite cynical about the whole 'prophecy' thing in my walk with God but reading them back after several years was like reading about the life I am now living in serving Him. God had it all right and I never should have doubted him. Psalm 139:13 says, 'For you created my inmost being, you knit me together in my mother's womb'. He knew me before He planned creation and He knew what I would be doing. God's plans are too great to put in a box.

My relationship with God is like my Memory Box. I never fail to keep topping it up with great things that happen in my life; times when God never fails and always provides, times when I experience relationship with him in an extroadinary way. I continually fail to look back at my relationship with God, to thank him for those times, to reflect on them and see God at work throughout my life as a whole. But I cannot box God. He is always there, always shaping and moulding me, to serve him and use me for His will.

I have yet to meet someone else who has a Memory Box. But at the crux of the matter, I do not need paper and ink to remind me of my good friend and our stories. I do not need scraps of paper reminding me how much God has in his hands, and the confirmation of his plans. These memories and beliefs are inherent, and that is greater than any paper or ink.

My Memory Box? It's just extra storage.