Sometimes, when my toddler is fully in a moment, he’ll close his eyes and squint up his face. I always wonder what he’s thinking in that moment, and it almost always makes me laugh to myself. 

I started collecting moments on our summer tour of the Deep South eight years ago. For those few weeks, the moments piled up like sand in a jar, brimming with shiny bits of shell and sea life. Kayaking through the Appalachian’s, busking on a busy street corner, fireworks over the New Orleans bay, watching for fireflies over mountain silhouettes. 

Since then, the moments have come like a river—some slow and subtle, and others vivacious and exciting. Watching my newborn fall asleep, cozying up next to Matt on the sofa after a long day, brunch dates with my mom on those special occasions, listening to our college group discuss God and love and modern culture around our tiny living room, making the decision to homeschool. Some of my favorite moments have been wrapped in otherwise ordinary packages. The ones where there were no expectations, no meticulous plan, just me in that space in time acutely aware of the goodness of God. 

I collect moments not because it seems more practical and space efficient than collecting something like shoes or art, but because the thread of the Bible is woven together with a call to remembrance.

I can tell when it has been awhile since I’ve actively looked for these moments because it usually means I’ve retreated too far into my own thoughts to be able to see what is around me. I’m either longing for what’s long gone or pining for what may or may not ever be. I am anywhere but where my feet are, and I feel anxious and melancholy, like the world exists only in shades of gray and the heartbreaking news the media loves to dish out is all there really is. 

But then something reminds me that the world in my head is far grimmer than the world God made for us–one brimming with color and diversity, a million types of creatures and landscapes and sunsets. People who are kind and helpful, friends who pull you back up from the depths, books that inspire and tell wonderful stories, songs that move you to tears, miracles all around us begging us to stop and celebrate the majesty of the Creator. 

I collect moments not because it seems more practical and space efficient than collecting something like shoes or art, but because the thread of the Bible is woven together with a call to remembrance. To recollect all that God has ALREADY done for His children so that it will just maybe give us the assurance we need that He will be faithful again. I collect moments because there’s enough fear and regret and shame to wipe out the human population like a tidal wave, and without some sort of mental log to remind me of all the ways love and hope and beauty still wins, I’d cave into the darkness every time. 

Contentment and gratitude are core values of our home and the attributes we work to instill in our boys as they grow. When I picture contentment embodied, I see my two year old, eyes squinted, head back, full-tilt in the moment. When we take our eyes off the waves and storms tossing around us and look full into the face of Jesus, we can start to see the light break through in subtle ways that, overtime, feel like revival to the soul.