When you need to remember

I've been quiet here this past week, friends.  We had a move a few days ago and tomorrow marks a year since my injury and my husband and I head out of town for our first anniversary, and everything in between has been a whirlwind.  I won't be here for the rest of the week, but I wanted to share a few thoughts on moving and turning pages before we feel finished with the last; on starting fresh even while the old still lingers; on remembering.

First, let me say, there is too much for me to sort through here and now, in this little post, so I must practice writing in pieces.

The day after settling into our new place, I set off on a walk in our neighborhood.   Mere blocks west of our casita are Asian markets, Vietnamese pho and East African restaurants, halal meat shops, taco trucks and a Mediterranean bakery.  Up the steps, to the street just west of our apartment, is a neighborhood teeming with homes situated like works of art in yards like gardens, and within a ten minute walk, I descended upon Lake Washington and its cherry tree-lined boulevard.  

We live in between two worlds that I love.  Where diversity and the eclectic flair of the city meet serenity and physical beauty.  It's an explorer's paradise, and I am hungry for new. 

I believed, with all my heart, that I didn't want to leave our last home.  Once again, God heard what my heart didn't know to ask for, and he gave us so much more.  I didn't know how secluded I felt this past year there, until we moved in, and I felt something dormant in me begin to stir.

As I walked the path along the lake, a flood of memories came back.  Of how many times I've run this lake and my feet practically danced their way for joy, and it's been so long.  So very long.  I've forgotten, nearly, what it's like to run free with my heart bursting.  And it hurt, to carry this longing, to acknowledge its presence.  Will I ever know this again?  

And the answer is, of course, I don't know.  

But, I felt something else, too.  Don't give up on this dream, small as it may seem, to run again.

Along this lake that my heart knows so well, beneath the deep blue sky and the cherry blossom trees, my heart began to awaken to dream, and with my inner ears I think I heard God, his words carried on a breeze in my soul.  

"This is going to be a year of remembering." 

I think it was God, because it hit spot on a spot I didn't even know was there, and my feet stopped walking, almost as if I wanted to be still and make sure I heard right.

A year of remembering, many things. 

Who I am and what I'm worth and things I've buried long ago.  How to run and how to dream and how to open myself to need.  

And this, especially this: remembering the love that brought us here to marriage, and how Love himself comes to breathe on smoldering ash and coax fresh flames to rise from nothing.

Because, I know, how even the most basic things must be relearned sometimes.  

I don't know how much I'll write this down and how much will simply be pondered, tucked away, until the tiny whisper of not-yet faith becomes a holy roar. 

It's like a friend beautifully wrote today, that sometimes we have to offer up our unbelief, wrapped in declarations of belief. And then, we wait, for the seeds of hope to grow.  


Linking up with the lovely Heather today for Just Write.