When I saw films as a child, I would place myself squarely in the shoes of characters closest to me in age. I remember going to the theater and watching E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial with wide-eyed wonder. Living in the moment and captivated by the magic of discovery, I felt like one of the children in the movie. Their adventures were my adventures.
But revisiting E.T. as an adult, I noticed that the parents, who once seemed peripheral to the story, were now structurally important. Their struggles and responsibilities, which I was blind to as a child, captured my attention. It seemed as if I was watching an entirely different film.
I’ve experienced something similar in revisiting books. When I first read Wendell Berry’s novel Andy Catlett: Early Travels, I enjoyed it for Berry’s poetic language and the way he captured rural life. However, returning to it years later, I found myself mourning my own losses alongside Andy—specifically, my grandmother’s house and my grandmother herself. As a boy, I’d lived with her for a while, and when I was rereading, scenes from that quieter life with her crept into the front of my mind: the walks to school and bus rides to church; catching fireflies on summer nights while she watched from the back stoop; and most of all, listening to her stories as we sat in lawn chairs till night came. It was the way she told stories, the way the people became more than names, that made me want to be a writer. Now that she’s gone, Berry’s novel has become a mirror that reflects simultaneously who I was and who I am.
But the reality is, these movies and books haven’t changed at all—I have. The events and relationships I’ve experienced have changed me inside and out, giving me growth rings like the stump of a tree. These layers fundamentally alter how I encounter the world. And when I revisit what once felt familiar, I find it speaks to me in unexpected ways.
Scripture Through New Eyes
Perhaps the most profound reencounters I’ve had have been with Scripture. Growing up, I read the Bible almost as a textbook, with the eagerness of a student to discern and learn and apply its lessons. I identified with characters like John Mark and Timothy, both being young disciples mentored by Paul. The apostle’s letters to Timothy seemed to be exactly the kind of wise guidance someone like me needed.
But as the years go by, I find my heart and life increasingly in tune with Paul’s. In his language—specifically concerning the desire and urgency to pass along wisdom before time is up—I see the weight of his words, the responsibility he feels to give Timothy all he needs to live and love on. It’s a perspective I couldn’t fully grasp as a young reader.
Then, there are the verses of Psalm 23, the first psalm I learned. It comforted me as a child: A good shepherd cared for me. As an adult, I still feel comfort, but I also hear a charge to imitate the shepherd’s loving care towards others (Psalm 23:1-6).
This shift in perspective, something like turning a diamond to catch the light from another angle, has deepened my appreciation for the Bible’s living nature. God’s Word speaks to us in different ways at different points in our life, offering new insights as we grow. The beauty has been in realizing that these evolving interpretations are not contradictions but layers, which add richness to my faith and strengthen me “like a tree firmly planted by streams of water” (Psalm 1:3).
When I look back, I’m struck by the way my various perspectives are intertwined. Each reencounter is like a thread, adding depth and texture to the tapestry of my life—a tapestry woven with memory, growth, and discovery. When I revisit a novel, a poem, a passage of Scripture, I bring with me everything I’ve gained—and lost—along the way. And God, the master Weaver, pulls even what seems poorly connected into a picture I could not have seen without the vantage point of years. As Frodo tells his friend Sam in The Lord of the Rings, the people in the story don’t usually know how it ends—but they keep going and learn along the way.
Some days I’m tempted to mourn the simplicity of my younger self, to wish I could encounter things with the same unfiltered wonder as I did initially. But more and more, I appreciate the complexity we gain over time. Returning to beloved material allows me to see how far I’ve come, to discern the ways my experiences have shaped me. It’s a reminder that growth is ongoing and that every stage of life has its own wisdom to offer. That our journey is not about reaching a destination but about embracing the process, scars and all.
Reencountering the past has changed how I see God at work in my life—even today. I’m currently preparing for a new job, leaving behind one place for another, and I know that eventually I’ll revisit these experiences. Some other story will help me to see this phase as part of the larger tapestry that my life is becoming. And in the meantime, I’m reminded to savor the present—to see the beauty and wonder in ordinary, everyday life, just as I did when I was a child watching E.T.
The stories we loved, the poems that moved us, the scriptures that shaped us—these remain unchanged. But we carry them with us, and our perception grows as we do, offering new meaning as we evolve. There’s no limit to the ways God’s wisdom can be revealed to us.
I’ve come to see my scars and growth rings as evidence of the Lord’s faithfulness, guiding me through seasons of joy and sorrow. Over time, He has given me a fuller and richer picture of who I am in Him. I hope I continue inviting God to speak to the person I am now, even as I’m reminded of the person I used to be—and He points me toward the one I will become.
