MEMORIES

There is a great gift from God that blesses us richly, yet we rarely stop to think about it—or about the joy, and sometimes sorrow, it brings. Many have spoken of it, written of it, and even sung about it.

For instance, Alfred Tennyson wrote:

“Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depths of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.”[i]

The gift I am speaking of is memory. Tennyson suggests that memory often brings tears as we think of days that are no more.

For those who remember her, Barbra Streisand sang of memory in The Way We Were, calling them “misty water-colored memories… of the smiles we left behind.”

Emily Giffin, author of Something Borrowed, wrote:

“Songs and smells will bring you back to a moment in time more than anything else. It’s amazing how much can be conjured with a few notes of a song or a solitary whiff of a room.”

How true that is.

Just for a moment, picture two people living together day after day, year after year, in some small home. They stand elbow to elbow at a narrow stove, squeeze past one another in a tight hallway, one shaving while the other reaches for the mirror to put on makeup. They brush against each other by accident—or on purpose—sensually, awkwardly, impatiently, occasionally in anger, but mostly in love. And now and then, one of those passing touches becomes an embrace, and the embrace becomes the quiet beauty of love making—an intimacy of oneness known only by two hearts that belong to one another.

Then one is gone.

The one left behind stands again at that stove, walks that hallway, catches their own reflection in the mirror, or sits on the bed once shared for so many years. And from somewhere deep within comes a whisper, a nudge, a stirring. Memories begin to flood the mind. Some bring smiles. Others bring tears. Yet all of them carry the deep joy of having shared life with someone who made us better.

I think—and this is only my opinion—that one of the saddest things about memory is this: we carry so many memories of those we have lost, yet so few people ask us to share them. If it was our child, our spouse, our parents, or a dear friend, we hold stories aching to be told. Those memories struggle to come out, yet few are willing to sit long enough to hear them. That may be one of memory’s loneliest sorrows.

Lois Lowry wrote in The Giver:

“The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It’s the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared.”

I believe Jesus gave us this gift of memory so that we might tell again and again the great things we know of those we have loved. Memory lets us speak of things past—both joyful and painful.

And I know this: when Christians gather on the first day of the week, we gather to sit at table and remember. We remember not only His death on the cross, as wondrously tragic and blessed as that was, but also His stories, His parables, His miracles, His walks with friends. We remember that He attended weddings and feasts, and that He also stood at gravesides and wept. He gave us bread and wine and said, in essence: Remember Me.

Alzheimer’s

Many of us have watched loved ones suffer from the dreadful disease of Alzheimer’s. At first we may laugh a little at forgetfulness and make careless remarks about “getting old.” But as the disease progresses, those small jokes return to haunt us, and we realize how cruel ignorance can be.

We weep as our loved one drifts farther and farther from reality—and from us. We begin to understand that much of life is wrapped up in memory.

Memory, though this may be an overstatement, makes us who we are. When memories fade, and even the simplest things can no longer be recalled, darkness settles in. The life we have lived seem to disappears. We have all heard of people reaching the point where they no longer remember even their own name.

My greatest mentor, George, watched this happen to his dear wife, Mary. She had once been warm-hearted, intelligent, and full of love. Over time she became someone who no longer recognized even the man who faithfully cared for her. Day after day George bathed her, fed her, comforted her when fear overtook her. With each passing day he watched her drift farther away.

They had loved traveling together. They would return home and look through photographs, reliving the places they had seen and the moments they had shared. But soon that too was gone. Memories vanished. Darkness closed in, and Mary—the Mary they had known—seemed no longer present. Though life remained in her body, much of it had disappeared from her mind.

Her children would come and she could not remember who they were. We have all seen such heartbreak in our own families or in the families of friends. We know it is not intentional. We know disease has stolen their memory. Yet the pain is no less real.

It reminds me of a line from Don Henley in The End of the Innocence:

“She just looked at me, uncomprehendingly like cows at a passing train.”

How many have seen that vacant look in the face of someone they dearly love?

It is estimated that millions worldwide suffer from Alzheimer’s. Though treatments may help symptoms for some, there is still no simple cure that can fully stop its cruel progression. Day by day it advances until the sufferer may no longer know who they are, where they are, or those who love them most. Hearts break while the body still lives.

Without the gift of memory—without the who’s, what’s, where’s, and when’s—we are terribly diminished. This is more than walking into a room and forgetting why we came. It is the loss of orientation, identity, and control.

That is why so much effort is spent studying memory, strengthening memory, preserving memory. Life is not only in the present moment. It is also in the treasured memories of the past and the bright hope of the future.

Memories of Others

So many writers have expressed what memory truly is. Nina Sankovitch wrote beautifully in Tolstoy and the Purple Chair about remembrance, sorrow, and healing. She reminds us that memory can be a balm to grief.

We lose loved ones to the great enemy, death—but death does not entirely win. We remember. And in remembering, we keep something of their life alive among us.

She also wrote that by looking backward, we are often able to move forward. That thought carries wisdom. Too often grief keeps us staring only at the end of someone’s life, rather than at the whole beautiful span of it.

Nicholas Sparks wrote in A Walk to Remember:

“There are moments when I wish I could roll back the clock and take all the sadness away, but I have the feeling that if I did, the joy would be gone as well.”

That rings true. Our memories contain both joy and sorrow. If we erase the pain, we often lose the sweetness too. Rain teaches us to love sunshine. Bitter winters make spring precious. Hard days deepen our gratitude for good ones. Memory reminds us not only what life was—but what it meant.

Living and Memory

I once began reading A Room Called Remember by Frederick Buechner. In it he tells of a dream about a room in a hotel he longed to revisit. The manager told him he could have that room anytime he wished—he need only call it by name. The room was called Remember.

We all have such a room within us. We may enter it whenever we wish—so long as memory remains. Sometimes we go there deliberately. Other times something carries us there unexpectedly: a song, a word, a photograph… or a smell.

For me, it is the smell of burning leaves.

Many in their thirties, forties, and fifties think of me as old, and teenagers certainly do. Yet whenever I catch even the faintest scent of burning leaves, I am transported back to high school.

I am suddenly at the house of a classmate, where our tenth-grade class is building a float for the homecoming parade. We are working in the garage because the design must remain secret until parade day. There is, after all, glory at stake for the class with the best float.

It is autumn. The evening is cool and slightly misty. Darkness comes early. Leaves are piled high in the yard. We are making tissue-paper flowers for the float. Some are telling jokes. Most are laughing. Everyone is talking at once.

Today, I cannot hear a single conversation clearly. I cannot even make out many of the faces. Yet I know they were there. Memory is funny that way. It does not preserve every detail. It leaves gaps. Sometimes it smooths rough edges. But what remains is enough—and enough is a blessing.

After a couple of hours, someone’s father steps outside. It is time for the bonfire.

The leaves are already burning in a bright orange heap. He hands each of us a sharpened stick. Bags of marshmallows are passed around. Then graham crackers. Then chocolate bars. Marshmallows blacken and melt. Chocolate softens. Sticky fingers and sweeter mouths follow.

And even now, years later, I can almost taste those s’mores—and there are no burning leaves anywhere nearby.

Final Thoughts

Memories—we all have them. When we enter that room called Remember, we encounter the many lives we have lived. There we are comforted, thrilled, saddened, strengthened, and sometimes weakened.

But above all, we are reminded of something precious: we have lived.

And even the painful memories can bring a strange and ultimate joy, because they testify that our days were real, our loves were real, our sorrows were real, and our journey mattered.

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[i] The lines are from Tears, Idle Tears, a lyric poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson. It was first published in 1847 as part of his long poem The Princess.