Archive for January, 2009

Old Memories

I went home for the first time in a while, other than Christmas, this past weekend. After work on Friday I drove the 45 minute trip home and then I spent all day at with the fam on Saturday. Apparently I had left boxes of stuff from when I first moved out over a year ago. So my mom pulled some of the boxes down from the attic so I could go through them and throw away what needed to be thrown away and take away everything else so she had more space in her attic. So I sat on the ground and emptied out the boxes and, surrounded by lots of old rubbage, I was run over by memory after memory after memory.

The first thing I found was this little porcelain angel box. It’s really small, can really only hold one ring but I love that thing. I got it when I was in 3rd or 4th grade from my choir director at church. I don’t even remember her name or what she looked like, but I do remember her pulling me aside one day and giving it to me. It was such a nice gift to give to a little girl and was completely random that it blew me away. She had thought of me, little crazy me, and trusted me enough to give me an extremely breakable, fragile little treasure. And I still have it, thats how much it impacted me!

There was a random writing assignment from middle school in one of the boxes, from The House On Mango Street. We had to answer several writing prompts about different chapters in the book. It was crazy to read through it and all of a sudden remember exactly what it was like back then, who I was back then. I definitely showed my writing skills off way back then, I wrote exactly like I do now only with more grammatical errors. It was like I was talking to 14 year old Sarah Hutchinson.  I was also a little sad because I could remember how frustrated I was with who I was, how lost I was at finding myself, and how my friends at the time weren’t helpful at all. But through all that I was struggling with, I answered the questions intelligently and in one I even shared the gospel. Huh.

The things that really made me cry were my coins from Venezuela and the bookmark my translator gave me. He had left a little note on the back. He was the most amazing translator ever, he didn’t just translate what I was saying to the people I was talking to, he took me under his wing and invested in me. The struggle I started in middle school about who I was continued into high school and wasn’t stopped until I met Gerardo on the mission trip to Venezuela. He called me bellissima and sat with me at meals and encouraged me in my spanish. He made me feel comfortable while I shared the gospel with strangers and helped me out when I stumbled or forgot where I was. He was my first love, in a sense. There was no one else in the world I felt more strongly about.

It’s crazy to think about who I was and where I was years ago and where I am now and how I got there. The people that have come into my life and impacted me, the places I remember being, the events I remember and don’t remember happening…all these things equal up to who I am now.


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