I remember feeling so trustworthy when my parents gave me my first house key. No more ringing the doorbell or waiting on the porch if no one was home. Then there was the sense of maturity when I got my very own set of keys to the family cars on my 16th birthday. I still have the key to the little blue Toyota Tercel I drove, even though we hauled it to a junkyard years ago after I totaled it. I keep that key in a box under my bed – a memento of good memories and a reminder to keep my eye on the
road ball. When I was handed the key to my first apartment there was a surge of independence, but there was a sad feeling of loss and demotion when I surrendered my office key at the end of what felt like a very important summer job. As a substitute teacher the lack of keys symbolized a level of authority I didn’t have, and the bestowal of keys (the literal metal ones) in conjunction with church callings has always seemed like a responsibility to be endured.
Of all the keys I’ve been entrusted with in my life, I think the keys to our new house are my current favorite. They surely cost a pretty penny, so I pray we are unlocking the door to many good memories.