Memories, in fact, make us who we are. We have no idea who God is, who we are, and what life can and should be without the woven stories of our recollection.

As I smell motor oil, I remember my uncle. I remember the things I learned since being a child around all the carcasses of cars yet to start again. The hurts, the disorientation that came as I lived longer in the Midwest than in my native South, I remember them.

The parting of my parents.
I remember my and Holley’s wedding.
When our daughter came crashing into the world after a brief and petrifying medical intervention.

It is all part of me, it makes me who I am.