Is there an acceptably appropriate moment to begin the accounting of one’s life? Shall we venture to the beginning to capture the entire flavor of a man’s story of accolade and failure? How briefly is the importance of child hood events ought be discussed or treasured? Do we linger merely for the sake of taking pleasure or interest in the pain of youth or simply move on to moments of maturity, calculating and defining adult hood as the only true concentration for the measure of man?

Is there associative pain with being born, living as youth or is it primarily defined from the cultural or economic circumstances of each person’s upbringing? Do we remember the early years of most men or perhaps do we rapidly skip to adolescence or early manhood to reflect upon the totality of lessons grasped as a young person? Is it the story of tragedy in which we find interest, flavor or rhythm, finding all else but the emotional upset of comedy, poverty or intrigue necessary for interest garnishment? You see each of us remember those episodes of youth bountifully, whether painful or pleasant for it may be contended that every moment of this life truly matters to us and certainly to God.

We ran, we cried, fell and wandered immensely regarding the first moment we recognized the finite and final price of mortality. Whether a bird shot from tree perch, a dog, a gerbil or even more drastic aunt Gertrude we grew that moment with regard to understanding the temporary nature of our reality probably more than any event since. Some were blessed with resilient family who made it through the primary years unscathed, free from incident or disease only to come crashing down to the cold granite of this world’s truth when we saw our best friend die or our man’s best friend. But what of life, when did we practice or recollect our understanding of the life’s robust measure, its abundance, hope and treasures to be carried through and beyond its apportionment? We found those moments of hope in the spiritual conversations either with those understanding and conscious leaders seeking our fulfillment or much like myself in the quiet moments with a God who cared enough to show up and explain the inexplicable.

Do we remember the pains more than the joy? Perhaps, but in so doing are we not indicating the nature of our own perspective heart? If I recall the first kiss, the first love, the joy of the kindness and reward shown by a caring Parent, do I then lose the potent story of victimization that accompanies most youthful exuberance? Am I poisoned by the tale or do I poison the potential by how the tale is remembered or its affect upon psyche and reason? Do I have more authority than I let on, to simply concentrate the focus of my story in its telling to paint a picture of slavery or worse, when in fact when told by objective author it was one of glory, learning, purpose, difficulty and growth? What then is now my excuse for a life spent without the exclamation of joy and abundant life, replaced with the hardships of a journey most arduous but splendorous in measure depth, and outlook?

My story begins with the moon. Reaching it, standing upon it, looking up to it, wondering the temperature the touch the seismology and the mountainous events. The light caught my eye, the light of a sun that warmed my shoulders, the light of that same sunlight as it danced through her sandy hair. The smiles, the anger and the unfortunate tragedy of siblings who thought themselves perhaps dislocated, having been placed in the perfect training ground that their pain would produce a measure of epistemological perfection in traveling the perhaps painful unwilling moments of participation with tyrants. Subjected to pressures of overwhelming authorities, barely mature themselves, angry, dejected, overbearing, guilty and ambitious to make such a statement in this life that the entire pond would scant forget the splash.

The moon offered no solution only respite, dream and imagination. In that imagination I found the salvation offered by escape and the salvation offered by a Holy God. For in the moments when this world offers more than we can process we are forced to investigate that which is beyond our circumstance. If not for the moon I would not have met God. If not for God I would never have loved living on Earth in an understanding that the moon is a dusty, dry, cold and lonely escape for most lovers to pine and porch pontificators to venture in oration.

What then of the humdrum moments of mere existence? Do they simply not count as they have no flavor, capture no measure of attention or emotion in their mention, so they simply cease to offer importance to our historical existence? Are my failures perhaps of greater import or interest of my successes, since we must faithfully admit that we learned more when on our backs, faces or fallen to our knees then we ever learned in joyful expression of our recent victory? What then shall we tell of a man for an abject and effective retelling of a story replete with pain and pleasure? I don’t know, but I do know this that it all mattered. You mattered within that retelling, nothing was unimportant, even my sin.

For in the vision of my cruelty. frailty, wickedness and unworthiness, I fully realized how precious to God I had always been. Even before my remembering of the story began. See we all have a beginning that He remembers of which we have no account, that time of our crafting and design. That time that is only God’s to remember and recount as He wishes, as each of us were known to our Loving Father before we became a thing headed for the procreation, we were a thing of precreation. I wonder how His view of our lives differs from our own. Simply seen in hope and expectation and guaranteed victory before it even began. Can we perhaps see ourselves in God’s Eyes. Maybe this will offer a greater perspective than the limited thinking of my own?