Memories

Last night I had a dish that I have not had in thirty-six years.  It took my brother's inquiry to remind me of a high school dish and memories.  Once a month, we used to go to a special restaurant for a great meal in the upstairs dining area.  Given the fluorescent lighting, benches, and flooring, I doubt it was expensive.  The tables would fill with school chums bubbling over with conversations and we would eagerly grab our plates, all filled with the same dish – murtabak.
I wake with the dawn flooding the hills.  The green terraced rice fields and wispy clouds dance with each other, each invoking memories that I have not requested. I see people I have not thought about for decades.  The events tucked away in the corner of my mind reappear and emotions well up from within.  I find myself unable to see except through lenses of love, compassion, and mercy.
I do not recall what murtabak tasted like then.  I do know that we used to drown it with catsup because it made it taste better.  I cannot recall the angst and anger of high school, though I do remember that I was often frustrated and willing to fight for my perspective.  I know there were tears, far too many, yet they find no home in what I can remember.
I remember the beauty of a dawn with a friend on a beach in Mersing.  We were exploring the morning light, hopeful that we cold capture it on film.  I do call the joy of drinking fresh orange juice by the post office, that it trumped the day's heat and humidity.  I do remember the stillness of Mac Ritchie Reservoir in the emerging morning light.  It was broken by the sound of wordless young men out for a forced morning run.  
Each memory opens up a window for today.
“He led them out of their slavery.  He did wonderful things, setting up God-signs all through Egypt, down at the Red Sea, and out in the wilderness for forty years.” (Acts 7.36)