History is not always made in the big events -- the wars, the crashing markets, the celebrity gossip. Dare I say it is rarely made there? Those headlines shape our cultural landscape, leaving monuments to honor and battlefields to forget, but we each traverse through on our own two feet.
We walk in the details, the minutiae of waking, dressing, eating, seeing, hurting, laughing, hoping for a better tomorrow, filing away the stories of today. This is where history is made. This is the path our memories trace.
May 22, 2009:
* Marcus Kirwin Aden Schoessler was born. My best friend phoned at one in the afternoon, baby in arm, voice serene. I was the one who cried. Welcome to your world, Marcus. May God dwell richly in you and your parents as they raise you to follow Him.
* I returned to editing my book. It was like sitting down to coffee with a dear friend, each of us apologizing for the too-long space between meetings. Let's do it again tomorrow, hmm?
* The crickets sang, and in their melody I relived a dozen childhood summers. I closed my eyes and saw stars winking above my head, nearly within grasp if I could just...reach...a few inches...higher.
* I stood on my lawn, drinking mint tea, eyes wide in wonder at the flashing glory of Spring's first thunderstorm. Dewy grass tickled bare toes; falling rain tickled upturned nose.
* As I sat on the floor listening to music, our dog tucked her head under my arm, trembling at each thunder clap. I held her close, tight, until she finally slept.
* Strawberries and whipped cream for dessert. Smile. That is a good memory.
What history did you make today?