{"id":4454,"date":"2018-03-24T23:10:29","date_gmt":"2018-03-24T22:10:29","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/omily.me\/?p=4454"},"modified":"2018-03-25T16:44:29","modified_gmt":"2018-03-25T15:44:29","slug":"when-im-the-girl-the-photograph","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/omily.me\/en\/when-im-the-girl-the-photograph\/","title":{"rendered":"When I’m the girl in the photograph"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

\"[:nl]Als
\n<\/a>\"[:nl]Als<\/a><\/p>\n

January, 1922, a young dutch girl is at school in Zaventem, Belgium. She writes the date carefully, each word a work of art.<\/p>\n

96 years later I hold it in my hands. I trace the letters she wrote; my great-grandmother.<\/p>\n

She started writing it just after a world war, not knowing it would only be the first. Before she had children, before those children grew up.<\/p>\n

Did she make ever make the fancy recipes she carefully wrote down, for visitors or in-laws?<\/p>\n

Sometimes I think of life back then in black and white, or at least in the faded colors of the photographs I find.<\/p>\n

But the sun shone just as brightly, and the grass was just as green.<\/p>\n

Life seemed to stretch out just as endlessly for her. After she went back home and put her simple\u00a0brown notebook with its elaborate curly writing on a shelf,\u00a0 she couldn’t have known that almost a century later it would find itself back in Belgium close to the place where it received its first word.<\/p>\n

Someday I’ll be the girl in the old fashioned photograph. And although it won’t be black and white it will seem just as far away.<\/p>\n

What seems like a lifetime now, and what is a lifetime, turns out to be so short.<\/p>\n

My life on earth will be over and only the stories will remain.
\nI’m still in the story right now. I don’t know if I’m nearing the middle or the end.<\/p>\n

Blink, and it will be over.
\nFeel, and it seems like forever, and like the only thing that matters.<\/p>\n

I see my children smiling and look at the black and white pictures of little girls who fell and scraped their knees, grew up and had little girls of their own.<\/p>\n

Lives, linked by blood and separated by time.
\nSmiles. All smiles look the same.<\/p>\n

I smile. Someday, someone will wonder who I was.<\/p>\n

And if I could, I would tell them that I smiled. I smiled and I laughed and cried and hugged by babies close. I lived and I wondered who I was and who I was supposed to be and every time, my Heavenly Father reminded me that all that matters is that I be His.<\/strong><\/p>\n


\n<\/a>\"[:nl]Als<\/a>
\n<\/a>
\n<\/a>\"[:nl]Als
\n<\/a>
\n<\/a>
\n<\/a> \"[:nl]Als
\n<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<\/p>\n

January, 1922, a young dutch girl is at school in Zaventem, Belgium. She writes the date carefully, each word a work of art.<\/p>\n

96 years later I hold it in my hands. I trace the letters she wrote; my great-grandmother.<\/p>\n

She started writing it just after a world war, not knowing it would only be the first. Before she had children, before those children grew up.<\/p>\n

Did she make ever make the fancy recipes she carefully wrote down, for visitors or in-laws?<\/p>\n

Sometimes I think of life back then in black and white, or at least in the faded colors of the photographs I find.<\/p>\n

But the sun shone just as brightly, and the grass was just as green.<\/p>\n

Life seemed to stretch out just as endlessly for her. After she went back home and put her simple brown notebook with its elaborate curly writing on a shelf, she couldn’t have known that almost a century later it would find itself back in Belgium close to the place where it received its first word.<\/p>\n

Someday I’ll be the girl in the old fashioned photograph. And although it won’t be black and white it will seem just as […]<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":4474,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[112,115,47],"tags":[],"yoast_head":"\nWhen I'm the girl in the photograph - Omily<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"noindex, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"[:nl]Als ik het meisje op de foto ben[:en]When I'm the girl in the photograph[:] - Omily\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"January, 1922, a young dutch girl is at school in Zaventem, Belgium. She writes the date carefully, each word a work of art. 96 years later I hold it in my hands. 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