Memory and Meaning
>> 7/31/10
A strange sense of déjà vu grips me while sitting on the end of my daughter’s bed in the predawn darkness. Years ago on a morning like this, my father slipped into the room shared by twin sons bearing news of my grandfather’s death.
The immense weight of that reality rested between us in those moments like a physical burden. The ensuing silence acknowledged that our lives were forever altered by this event.
One of many steps towards young adulthood was taken that day as a portion of the sorrow was accepted. That’s the wonderful thing about family. No one is left to bear life’s burdens alone. The weight becomes lighter (and for that reason more manageable) when shared. Somehow that was understood even in my youth.
There comes a day when life’s big moments are repeated, only we know them from the opposite side. I have a new appreciation for the man who came as messenger to my room that day. Sometimes words are hard to speak because our own heart is broken. The knowledge they will break the heart of those we love makes their delivery doubly difficult.
The role of heavyhearted father is mine on this day. The moment is familiar and yet unique. Her grandfather, my father, has moved past this life, temporarily beyond our reach.
A remarkable thing happens with the death of those we love. In the days that follow we see them in every moment of life no matter how insignificant. It’s as if the heart dons new lenses crafted specifically for that purpose. Every effort to process this event leads to the contemplation of some additional and unexplored aspect of Dad’s life.
Some people find memories a painful liability. They intrude unbidden and leave us battling unexpected emotions. In those moments when life cannot be controlled we resolve that feelings will submit to our will. But denying them is unhealthy and serves no useful purpose.
The heart tells me that memories are meant to be a blessing. The past few weeks leave me inundated with stories about the man who was and always will be the greatest influence and example for my life. Each brings a smile and awareness of how greatly his life blessed mine. Remembering prompts thankfulness for the gain rather than complaints about the loss. Tears brought by emotions are an outward testimony of the love that will always remain in a son’s heart. Embracing those feelings and expressing that love is liberating.
I resort to writing in moments like this out of a conviction that every event and memory in life is significant. Too often we fail to comprehend the value of the experiences and people we encounter. Writing is a way of processing events, of carefully considering their meaning and role in shaping our future. Words flow out of a conscious desire to savor all that’s been given.
There will come a day when the mind will age and remembering may no longer be possible. The inability to access memories leaves us truly alone. The real tragedy is not that we are ambushed by memories or that we become emotional when we are. What’s sad is that we discard and forget, either intentionally or inadvertently, much of life as being irrelevant.
Memory is a way of treasuring what is precious and sacred. Writing is a conscious decision to preserve the meaning of those memories. The result is a fuller understanding of blessings bestowed by a father who mentored me through life.
A sea of memory engulfs me while composing the message to be shared at the memorial service. I am not at a loss for words. The challenge is to separate what should be said in those brief moments from all that could be said. The task becomes manageable when viewing what is offered on this day as a final gift for the man who was such a gift to me.
In the opening chapter of his book, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, Donald Miller writes, “The saddest thing about life is that you don’t remember half of it (page 3).” He contends that the process of consciously trying to remember your life has a way of making you question what it means. Remembering leaves you with the feeling that life ought to mean something even if you are not sure what (page 5).
I’m not yet able to discern how varied events of life are being woven together to create a comprehensive whole. So much is beyond my current level of understanding. There often seem to be more questions than answers. While I do believe this life is preparation for the next, I can’t yet envision what that future will be like. But I do find Miller’s suggestion appealing:
My heart longs for a place like that, where memory and meaning meet.
The immense weight of that reality rested between us in those moments like a physical burden. The ensuing silence acknowledged that our lives were forever altered by this event.
One of many steps towards young adulthood was taken that day as a portion of the sorrow was accepted. That’s the wonderful thing about family. No one is left to bear life’s burdens alone. The weight becomes lighter (and for that reason more manageable) when shared. Somehow that was understood even in my youth.
There comes a day when life’s big moments are repeated, only we know them from the opposite side. I have a new appreciation for the man who came as messenger to my room that day. Sometimes words are hard to speak because our own heart is broken. The knowledge they will break the heart of those we love makes their delivery doubly difficult.
The role of heavyhearted father is mine on this day. The moment is familiar and yet unique. Her grandfather, my father, has moved past this life, temporarily beyond our reach.
A remarkable thing happens with the death of those we love. In the days that follow we see them in every moment of life no matter how insignificant. It’s as if the heart dons new lenses crafted specifically for that purpose. Every effort to process this event leads to the contemplation of some additional and unexplored aspect of Dad’s life.
Some people find memories a painful liability. They intrude unbidden and leave us battling unexpected emotions. In those moments when life cannot be controlled we resolve that feelings will submit to our will. But denying them is unhealthy and serves no useful purpose.
The heart tells me that memories are meant to be a blessing. The past few weeks leave me inundated with stories about the man who was and always will be the greatest influence and example for my life. Each brings a smile and awareness of how greatly his life blessed mine. Remembering prompts thankfulness for the gain rather than complaints about the loss. Tears brought by emotions are an outward testimony of the love that will always remain in a son’s heart. Embracing those feelings and expressing that love is liberating.
I resort to writing in moments like this out of a conviction that every event and memory in life is significant. Too often we fail to comprehend the value of the experiences and people we encounter. Writing is a way of processing events, of carefully considering their meaning and role in shaping our future. Words flow out of a conscious desire to savor all that’s been given.
There will come a day when the mind will age and remembering may no longer be possible. The inability to access memories leaves us truly alone. The real tragedy is not that we are ambushed by memories or that we become emotional when we are. What’s sad is that we discard and forget, either intentionally or inadvertently, much of life as being irrelevant.
Memory is a way of treasuring what is precious and sacred. Writing is a conscious decision to preserve the meaning of those memories. The result is a fuller understanding of blessings bestowed by a father who mentored me through life.
A sea of memory engulfs me while composing the message to be shared at the memorial service. I am not at a loss for words. The challenge is to separate what should be said in those brief moments from all that could be said. The task becomes manageable when viewing what is offered on this day as a final gift for the man who was such a gift to me.
In the opening chapter of his book, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, Donald Miller writes, “The saddest thing about life is that you don’t remember half of it (page 3).” He contends that the process of consciously trying to remember your life has a way of making you question what it means. Remembering leaves you with the feeling that life ought to mean something even if you are not sure what (page 5).
I’m not yet able to discern how varied events of life are being woven together to create a comprehensive whole. So much is beyond my current level of understanding. There often seem to be more questions than answers. While I do believe this life is preparation for the next, I can’t yet envision what that future will be like. But I do find Miller’s suggestion appealing:
I wonder if that’s what we’ll do with God when we are through with all this, if
he’ll show us around heaven, all the light coming in through windows a thousand
miles away, all the fields sweeping down to a couple of chairs under a tree, in
a field outside the city. And we’ll sit and tell him our stories, and he’ll
smile and tell us what they mean (page 8).
My heart longs for a place like that, where memory and meaning meet.
6 comments:
My sincere condolences on your loss, Craig. I have no doubt that God will explain the mysteries of life to us, some day.
Craig,
I have not yet experienced the loss of a parent, though I have lost loved ones. I can only imagine, through my remembered grief, what it will be like when I face the day that you have arrived at. I do know this though. I know that your Dad left a legacy of love and caring, and that you have passed that on to your daughters, and they will pass it on to their children. Your Dad will be remembered in the acts of kindness, in the raising of grandchildren and great grandchildren and beyond. You too are leaving such a legacy. And, in my humble opinion, that is the only legacy worth leaving - one that echoes through generations and leaves living messages of honor, love, kindness and all the other wonderful values your father shared with you. And when I think about it, I think that quite possibly, you are the echo of his father before him. It's a wonderful thing to contemplate!
BFG -- I join you in the belief that the One who knows all things will one day make all things known.
BOP -- I hope it works something like that. Thanks for the kind words.
A great Colombian writer wrote in his autobiography - Living to tell the tale - that: "Life is not what one lived, but what one remembers and how one remembers it in order to recount it.” Memory shapes meaning and identity.
After my losses all I have are the memories. They give me solace.
sincere-lee
lizzie lee
Most of us don't remember enough about the life we've lived because we count so many experiences as being meaningless. It's in recounting them that we begin to see how they are related and become aware of why they are important. Life would be fuller if we remembered more carefully.
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