One of the greatest gifts of youth is its memory. By the time you age enough to want to remember it you have mostly forgotten all but the good times. The many indiscretions have long since faded—all memories seem to be blessed with the forgiveness of forgetfulness. I only remember an idyllic youth, filled with friends, sports, and adventures. I am no fool though, my youth was also filled with want, with deep wounds inflicted by the church and clearer still the many ways in which I was sorrowful toward others. This walk down memory lane just got crossways with briars and gnarled rhododendron. The trails of the prodigal always lead through the sty but in my case, my earthly father awaited on the porch beside my heavenly Father. One of the greatest memories of my youth is that I always felt my parents to be proud of me or at least proud of who they knew I could be. I guess my great memories are more due to my great parents than my great living. Like I said, one of the greatest gifts of youth is its memory.
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