remember, the story.

Maybe this is all about figuring out our story, or even remembering that we are a part of one.
Each day I write, I remember something. There is a vague impression of something missing and I'm starting to remember
that it was supposed to be filled.

Each day I write, it gets harder to remember but the longing grows even more. Maybe that's why our children are always asking questions. They know so clearly there is something to be found out. They are not naive, so much as aware of the reality that escapes us.

What a shame that newborns cannot speak. So close to birth, they must remember His hands folding theirs into fingers. Covered in warmth and safety, curled up around His Spirit, being sung to sleep. And then thrust into a bright hot world, away from the warm covering of the Spirit. As soon as the chord is cut, the remembering starts. But it must be so near for them, but they have no voice to tell us what they can still see.

Seems like creation turned against us. Each day the craving to figure out what story we've been written into, is one day farther away from the beginning and from a clear recollection of the author.

But there's redemption. There's answers for questions asked, but then there are many many more questions. And all I know is that I'm one of Faustus' own right now. Grasping for every book and every conversation, wanting to know all things so that I can piece together this story. And remember that it is I've forgotten.