Pictures make me think of stories. Most would think of their specific memories when they see a picture; but occasionally I think of the stories that I did not experience.
I grew up in a small, tight-knit community in the heart of the jungle of Venezuela. Where I grew up, a modge-podge group of missionaries resided. Daily life was spent with schooling, chores, swimming, and the best part: story telling. I was a part of this group, one of the numbers that had passed through this place in the 60 plus years that it had existed. And looking back on it, I felt like just a number.
You see, there were stories about better times. A time when the place was just a few decades younger than I was. There were people there that remembered this time and cherished the memories that were had before I was born. They laughed and cried about stories that were spoken aloud so many times that I had memorized them, relished them in my soul. I longed to be a part of that time, to be in those stories that caused side-splitting laughter.
It was as if I were looking at a picture book of my parents and my older brothers traveling and having a good time before I was even born. It leaves a sense of aching, a sense of missing out on all that my small world had to offer.
I am older now, and I have matured past the point of needing to be in those peoples’ memories. However, I look at pictures of Venezuela, that community, and I think of stories that I have never heard. They are stories without number, in all spans of emotions, stories of a different generation.
I was one of the last of our community to live in that location. I cried and ran my thirteen year old fingers against the humid plastic of the airplane window as we circled the airstrip one last time. I think that counts for something, though I cannot tell what just yet.
Maybe someday I will tell my children my stories and they will wonder the same things.
