Flickering Flames

The memory of a warm flame flickering next to a stately, colonial door just slipped into my mind. I'm sitting outside of our town home, listening to birds chirping in a gray, cool sky. That day we were in Savannah, Georgia looked much like today--I'm sure that's why the sweet memory was piqued. It's been almost a year since we were there; I was pregnant still, and we were blissfully enjoying the rainy adventure to the historical city. 

Magnolias dropped heavily from glossy leaves, warm store-fronts, wet sidewalks, deliciously old buildings standing at every corner and in-between. We felt the magic of it all, breathed in the stories that had played out on those very cobblestone streets. Later in the day we'd go back to our little condo next to the ocean on Hilton Head Island. We'd smell the salty breeze and swim in the blue waves.

It's hard not to think that such a place would make our life perfect. "If only we lived in...our lives would play out with ease." It's folly, but I admit that I've been living in the romance of it lately--probably because we don't really have a home right now. Kyle said it last night: "We have no place that we belong right now. This isn't our haven yet." 

So meanwhile, I sit in the glow of memory to ground me. I pray often, simply because God is orderly and my world is not. Memories flicker in and out of my mind, and I'm constantly finding some random metaphor in a silly mess around me. At least I'm not constantly in tears! Because I know that's the alternative. 

Today, I'm thankful for memories.