I would usually set aside the large album with paper pages and a blue and teal cloth cover. This one held my parents’ wedding pictures, which I didn’t quite value at the time. The photographs were black and white after all. My favorites were an album with a cover that looked like basket weave, and one that had a slightly blurry close-up of white flowers on a background of leaves and stems. The photos were held down firmly on sticky pages underneath clear film.
Turning the pages was time travel—sometimes to moments remembered only in photos, others, to glimpses of events well-remembered. There’s one of a naughty two-year old me, trying to grab ornaments from the Christmas tree. There’s a three-year old rosy-cheeked Tim with wide, red skis, working his way up the slight incline of our Denver backyard. The only picture of me with the skis is inside the house, the That one always made me wonder why I didn’t have skis. But I did manage to get the skis on my feet, inside the house, while wearing my yellow footie pajamas.
I loved looking at the picture of a cute little Nathaniel, eating his Saturday morning bowl of cereal while watching cartoons. We sat on the edge of the room, probably because we weren’t allowed to sit on the rug (also orange) while eating. It was a wise move, as we spilled a lot.
There’s one of Grandmother, my mother’s mother, in the backyard with Tim and me on the day of her departure after a two-week visit. I remember when we took that photo—she didn’t really want to be in the picture, but thankfully someone insisted, so we have her there. And even without the photo in front of me I see her, tall and slender, arms crossed, blue rolled up dungarees and sneakers, a gentle and sincere smile on her face, as if she were saying, “I love you, grandchildren, and I will pray for you every day when I’m gone from you.”
We still have a pretty good collection of photo albums at this house in The Woodlands, and funny enough, the living room has much the same paneling and bookshelves as the one I remember from Snag Lane. The albums are crammed in the cabinets—one baby book for each child, several from my teens and twenties, before I met John, a couple from his travels before he met me, our wedding book—also large and some black and white, probably not fun for the kids. There’s a big box of photos that never made it into albums, and also a few albums from our trips to Michigan. I think I’m about the only one who pulls them out though. I thought I was the only one with a bent for nostalgia.
So it was a nice surprise when, last week, I found a new way to reminisce with the kids—we did a deep dive into this blog, scrolling through memories of our time in Germany, back to when Henry was a baby and then back to the beginning of the blog when Elisabeth had just turned two.
How we laughed at Elisabeth’s early language: “Bitty weed buht on Mommy’s wap” and Henry’s literal translations of German as a four year-old: “It gives pizza on Thursday.”
Some entries were so very short: “We’re ready for the baby to come!” and some went on and on for pages about our entry into Germany. Kuddos to the faithful readers of 2010-2012.
And then later in the day I found myself reading various posts about dealing with my brother’s death. I’m grateful to have those memories and those struggles recorded for myself and for my children.
Frederick Buechner, one of my favorite writers, says, “Pay attention! Listen to your life.” When I write, I’m forced to pay attention, to slow down and look. And that’s why I like to write. Photographs can get me to pay attention too, as long as I’m not so fixated on catching the moment that I miss it.
A couple of days ago Elisabeth and Henry and two of their cousins, Timothy and Charlotte, were swimming in our pool. All four had paused for a moment of rest and when I looked up at them they had inadvertently struck a pose. “Look Josh,” I said to my brother, “They look like they’re posing for an album cover.” For there they sat—Elisabeth, the blond, sitting in the water. Charlotte, the brunette close in next to her, Henry sprawled out behind them both, Timothy playing it cool as he sat on a rock and leaned over with his elbow on his knee. I looked around for a smartphone so I could take a picture, but there was none, so I just soaked it in. John, Josh and I all just stared and chuckled at our cool kids. I wanted to take a photo to catch the moment, but I knew that even as I left to grab a phone, it would be gone. But there they were, these four, these 10 and 13 year olds. Content in themselves, satisfied. At ease in the water, out of the water. For the moment, content. I’ll remember that.
“Listen to your life,” writes Buechner in Now and Then. “See it for the fathomless mystery it is. In the boredom and pain of it, no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way into the holy and hidden heart of it, because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.”
I feel like I’ve shared this quote before, but there’s something else entirely in thinking about it after a week of trying to recover from a virus that’s dragged me down, causing me to alternate between a slogging body and slothful mind. I see clearly how much I find my identity in being able to keep commitments, to be helpful to others, to cook dinner, to clean the house, to do things, while for a long week I’ve cancelled plans and playdates and skipped out on what I said I would do. When I can set the guilt at bay for a few moments though, I see the warmth of a community around me which fills the gaps I leave. I savor the time I’m given to read, all distractions forced aside. I play board games with my son that often I feel to busy to play. I finally watch This is Us.
And as my spinning world is put on hold, I see what Buechner means when he says that life itself is grace.
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Anna Marion