here i put my ebenezer in two bins

If you attended church as a young kid as I did - in my smocked dress, uncomfortable shoes, long braids tickling my itchy neck- holding the hymnal tightly so I wouldn't drop it, not wanting to interrupt the very GOD of all things who was PRESENT in our midst, you probably know the hymn Come, Thou Fount.

The second verse was my favorite because of the phrase, Here I raise my Ebenezer, which I related to George C Scott, my favorite Ebenezer of all time whom my brother and I would watch on Christmas Eve in my grandparent's up north, middle-of-the-woods living room, waiting for Scrooge to dance down the street shouting !Merry Christmas! just before midnight when our grandpa's big clock would ring in the dawning of the greatest day of the year.

Eventually I learned the hymn was, of course, referring to the Ebenezer from the Bible and meant Stone of Help and was used in I Samuel when Samuel told the Israelites to stop - PAUSE - SELAH -Take a breath, you whiners!! Just TRY to remember what the Lord had done for you so far. The Israelites were to make a monument to remember the Lord had helped them defeat the Philistines. So they did, claiming they would always remember this moment forever, yes, we love you ohsoverymuch, Lord.

Joshua did it too - stacked stones of remembrance, reminding the wandering Israelites,"Hey, guys, this is important. When your kid asks what are these rocks here for? Tell them it's because God has brought you this far."

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My goal is to go through the storage room this summer. Four years since we moved, and it's starting to need a refresher.

I start with the two bins of my memories.

I - for the first time in years - take the time to read what my past self held onto. Sift through what I unwittingly memorialized in the form of cards, notes, scraps of paper kept.

Out of chronological order, friends and family mishmash together into what would be a great dinner party - if only. I create some order, putting journals in year order, pictures in an album to better preserve. Stack notes and letters into a pile. Laughing at the funny short poems we used to write each other. Smiling at the inside jokes written in ballpoint pen.

Although I consider myself an inconsistent journal keeper, I can trace my life's plot through what I have managed to scrawl. While I lost a decade of memories to water creeping into a bin, destroying a stack of Moleskines, the rest are there. Even junior high me had something to say. And it's ridiculous.

I read through my freshman in college journal that's more complete because we had to turn it in for a grade rather than any propensity to keep good records. But somehow it captures my mind battling with itself as it faced so much newness, a heart infatuated, and it seems so distant, yet, still me. The professor's comments are scattered throughout, encouraging me then...and now.

I keep digging and find random notes from friends stuffed in a folder, cards from grandparents, weekly letters from my dad, always with a dollar and a comic included. A new journal started my college junior year with the beginning statement: I don't have a sophomore journal because absolutely nothing good happened and it was terrible. Maybe I thought if I ignored it, that would erase its existence.

Fast forward through meeting my husband, my newly married self and my post-college full-time job, my life as a mom to a newborn, wait, three newborns! my dad's illness, grad school, various jobs.

I record it in snippets, this life I remember.

I create two piles: Keep, throw away.

This would be easier if people like my parents were still alive. An expectation of more - NEW! - letters in the mail. Easier if certain friends were still there, reachable for a night out.

Instead it becomes a decision of whether these words matter enough to hold onto. Knowing if I toss, they won't be replaced.

I find plenty to toss. Do I need that disappointment folded away in my storage? Does that dot gridded anger need to keep mattering? That immaturity deserve to keep rambling on?

Keep: This isn't hard. I keep anything where my dad says he loves me and how lucky he is to be the dad of my brother and me. Anything where my mom records a funny story of something I said or did. The distinct handwriting of friends who so sweetly called out characteristics of me they saw. Encouragements from a professor I respected. Mushy notes when I met my husband. Ticket stubs of concerts, museums, flights, and yeh, that one time I got to see Michael Jordan play.

Eventually, I start crying. When I try to explain it to my husband, it's confusing. But I know what my heart feels: Remember when I was lucky enough to have that love and not just in writing?

It's sad, but mostly it's renewing. Encouraged, I'm glad I did the hard work. Glad to be reminded of who I was, who I've met, how I've grown. Glad to feel God's grace through it all.

I message my college roommate, as if to remind myself we knew each other and she's still there. Remember when? She responds in just the way I knew she would.

I email the professor. Remember this? She responds graciously. We say we will meet for coffee.

I tell my own young adult kids a story or two about their grandpa and grandma I'm afraid they're forgetting. Remember them? I vow to be better about putting my love in writing for them to keep when I'm gone.

I tuck the notes back in the bin. I organize the pictures in two big albums stuffed full.

I pack the bins, label them. Raise them back into the basement corner.

Here I raise my Ebenezer, hither by thy help I'm come;

And, I hope, by thy good pleasure, safely to arrive at home.

Jesus sought me when a stranger, wandering from the fold of God;

He, to rescue me from danger, interposed his precious blood.

O to grace how great a debtor daily I'm constrained to be!

Let that grace now, like a fetter, bind my wandering heart to thee.

Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it, prone to leave the God I love; here's my heart;

O take and seal it; seal it for thy courts above.

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