Pinecones

When was the last time you thought about your firsts?

Not the big, cinematic ones—first car, first kiss, first hangover (the one that made you promise God things you still haven’t delivered on).

I mean the small ones.
The ones that seem insignificant but somehow stuck.

Your first Halloween costume.
Your first crush who never knew.
Your first rejection—the one that made your stomach drop and your confidence call in sick.
Your first sip of something you weren’t supposed to have, thinking, Ah, rebellion tastes like cherry cough syrup and regret.

But here’s a question we rarely ask:
What’s your first memory?

I read somewhere that most people’s first memory shows up around two-and-a-half years old. Before that, our brains are too busy building highways to hit record. So the things we think we remember—like sitting on Santa’s lap or that early trip to Disney—are often just family folklore with pictures attached.

But my first memory?
It’s not dramatic.
It’s not even interesting.

I was two.
Walking with my babysitter on a chilly fall day.
The leaves were everywhere—red and gold confetti carpeting the world—and we were hunting for pinecones.

I remember the smell of the pine needles.
The crunch beneath my tiny shoes.
The way the cold air made everything smell clean, like possibility.

That’s it. That’s the whole memory.
Two people. A pile of leaves. A handful of pinecones.

For years I thought, Really? That’s my first?
Couldn’t I have something more cinematic? At least a talking bush or a divine whisper?

But lately I’ve been wondering if maybe I remember that day because of what I was doing.
I was searching.

I wasn’t just walking—I was looking for something beautiful, hidden in plain sight.
And maybe… I’ve been doing that ever since.

I’ve searched for success.
For approval.
For love that felt safe enough to stay.
I’ve searched for meaning, purpose, peace, God—sometimes all at once, like a spiritual scavenger hunt with bad directions.

And after a lifetime of looking, I think I finally get it:
Maybe the point was never to find more.
Maybe it was to realize that what I was searching for was never lost.

Maybe we’re all still walking through our own leaf-covered forests, hoping what we find will tell us who we are.

Here's what no one tells you:
You can spend decades chasing a better life, only to wake up one day and realize the best one was already waiting at your kitchen table—wearing pajamas, asking if there’s any milk left.

These days, I don’t want to search anymore.
I want to see.
I want to notice.
I want to mend the fences I can, love the people who stayed, and let peace be the prize instead of the pursuit.

My first memory was searching for pinecones.
I hope my last one is realizing I’ve finally found what I was looking for all along:
God, family, and the kind of love that makes you want to leave the world a little softer than you found it.

“Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is, and walk in it, and you will find rest for your souls.”  

-Jeremiah 6:16