The Power of Memories

 

Grief and memory go together. After someone dies, that's what you're left with. And the memories are so slippery yet so rich. – Mike Mills, American musician

Yesterday I had to write a letter. I used to write lots of them back in the days before computers, text messaging, and the like. Some of my notes could fit on a postcard’s back, but most were two or more pages. I remember writing one letter that was sixteen pages, written on notebook paper, both sides. I do not remember what I said, but I am sure I wrote so much for a reason. It was probably just drivel, unimportant and trivial things I had done, heard, thought, or learned, but that stuff was important to me then. The lady I wrote to was a good friend and never complained. She also never failed to respond. That is one memory that I cherish.

I wrote the letter yesterday to another friend, older than me, who has known me all my life. We have shared many years and memories, but now I live three-quarters of the way across this country from her. Sure, I could telephone, but this time I had to write, or rather type, an actual letter. I was sending her a prayer shawl in the mail, and I wanted to explain the purpose of it, what the colors meant to me, the different stitches I had put into it, and mention that many prayers had gone into it. It was meant to be something soft, light, and comforting, like a gentle hug from far away. While writing, though, it brought back memories of things like her wedding, her family treating me like one of them, and her introducing me to Chinese food in my teens. There were days at the beach, shopping trips, lunch at various places around town, and afternoons spent organizing her jewelry box. It was all fun.

I think the letter was more than a page and a half, but I could have written a volume. I have many memories of her mother, in a way, taking the place of mine, who died when I was fourteen. Her mother helped me sew clothes for college, tried to teach me to cook some of my favorite dishes, and generally listened to my babble as I sat at her kitchen table, drinking iced tea and feeling like I was at home.

I wanted to remind my friend of all those memories, including the times I have tried to make her mother’s spoon bread but never could get it past the “If it looks like hog swill, you’ve got it right” stage. It was a dish she made often, frequently to be taken to a family in grief over the loss of a loved one. She reminded me that the spoon bread, full of butter, would slide down a throat clogged with tears when nothing else would. I mentioned the spoon bread in the letter since, if I lived closer and could get the dish to turn out like her mother’s, I would have taken it to my friend’s house. It would have been understood and welcomed since my friend was indeed in a state of grief. The shawl would have to replace the spoon bread, but hopefully would last much longer and demonstrate the sympathy and love that went into both.

I thought about my friend a great deal yesterday, running through memories like a child running through a meadow full of dandelions, buttercups, and daisies. Then I had what was indeed an insight: my friend and her family had demonstrated what God’s love was like -- accepting, protecting, sharing, feeding, listening, and a hundred other things. They were not church-goers, but they still illustrated what Jesus tried to teach about loving one’s neighbor. They were not rich, but they always had an extra potato to put in the pot so I could have dinner with them. They gave me good advice and taught me things I needed to know outside of school books. They shared their time with me. If those things were not examples of what Jesus taught, I would have missed the point of that lesson altogether. 

Rosa Parks once said, “Memories of our lives, of our works and our deeds will continue in others.” That quote sums up God’s will and is a guideline to recognize God’s work in others who give without thinking or stinting. I am sure I won’t forget this insight quickly because it has lodged in my heart when I think of my neighbors who were more than neighbors. They were teachers of an exceptional kind, the kind Jesus would have approved. They put words into action without quoting.  

Look around you. Who teaches love and kindness to neighbors without saying a word about it? Have you done that in your own life and ministry? Have you investigated memories to see where you might find a lesson or insight?  I did, and I am glad. I would have missed a great life lesson.