I’m a memory keeper. I keep all kinds of memories in boxes, drawers and totes. It started with the wrist band that identified him as mine. A ring of plastic with a smudged last name and the first name all newborns receive at delivery: Baby.

Our first day home, I snipped the bracelet off his tiny wrist and put it away for safe keeping. Within days his first mail arrived, bursting with blessings from family and friends. I tied a satin ribbon around the stack.


By the time his face was smeared with chocolate frosting one year later, an assortment of items filled the container: A newborn sleeper, strands of gold clipped at his first haircut, a flattened birthday hat, and one wished-upon candle. All treasures tucked into a cardboard box marked “Rickie�?and much too valuable to ever throw away.

Mementos of his life. Reminders of what my boy was like before he became a man. Sometimes the item was small—a feather or a note left on the refrigerator. Bulky keepsakes joined the loot—artwork, baseball glove, and the basketball signed by his senior teammates. Twelve years of report cards were kept there. Last into the makeshift time capsule, his mortarboard and tassel, a sign that life would never be the same.

Childhood was finished. Mothering was, too. Every savored tidbit outlined the making of an individual that I nurtured, prayed for, and wept over. Hope in hiding, touchable remnants stored away for a time when we would need to remember days swiftly stolen.

Eventually, the question surfaced. When does a grown son become the keeper of his own memories? I decided the time would not be right until he had clipped off a hospital bracelet, understood the softness of baby locks, and had taped more than one toddler masterpiece to his refrigerator door. Meanwhile, I protected them. They were my comfort when the basketballs stopped bouncing.

His years between twenty and thirty were stormy. My nest was empty but my bird wasn’t taking to flight as I’d coached. Drugs and alcohol captured his attention. A couple of silent years passed when he was too proud to visit or call. He didn’t want a mom right now. Didn’t need one. So I waited and left the porch light on.

By his mid-twenties, Rickie had a son of his own. Still, there was an uncomfortable breach in our relationship. Disappointments, failures, and angry words had taken a toll. There didn’t seem to be a way to bridge the chasm.

We each had a lot to learn about holding on to what’s most important—each other. Stowed memories reminded me that at one time we hugged often, laughed out loud and dreamed about the future. Hope lay buried in the box. Deep within, I knew the tie between us was not severed forever. We had shared almost all of his life together and that’s a deep reservoir.

Then it was time. I’d warehoused the mementos for thirty years, protecting them from weather, address changes, garage sales, and divorce divisions. When his birthday was one week away, I went treasure chest shopping.

I bought a weathered wooden trunk, rounded on the top. From the booty I’d saved, I selected priceless pieces sure to deliver the biggest smile, the loudest, “You saved this?�?and even a nostalgic tear.

Last of all, I added an extensive letter about what it was like to raise a son as a teenage mom. I reminisced about how we parented each other and learned our Bible verses together. What it felt like to go to his graduation and what I experienced when as a two-month-old he attended mine. I recounted funny stories only he and I shared. And I told him that I loved him, that I would always love him, no matter what.

I licked the tear-stained envelope, placed it amid the treasures, and lowered the lid.

Conversation was awkward at the restaurant. After a quiet rendition of “Happy Birthday,”he walked me to my car. I opened the hatch-back and presented his gift. My adult first-born bawled like a baby when he peeked inside. And there it was—his wide smile, the one missing for so many years. In the darkness of the parking lot, a prayer was answered: He hugged me.

Sometime after midnight, he called. “Mom, I’ve been reading your letter for hours.�?His sobs were muffled. “We really did grow up together, didn’t we? I love you, Mom.�?BR>
Wise King Solomon wrote that “there are times�?and seasons for every activity under heaven�?a time to keep and a time to give away.�?Relationships are preserved in the keeping and in the giving away. It turns out, three decades of birthdays was exactly the right amount of time to hold to silly things.