When Memories Help Us See the Light
A note about memories, parenthood, and the Kingdom of God (plus books, recipes, a Lenten playlist and more!)
Let your light shine before men, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven. ~Matthew 5:16
When I learned of his death, I didn’t think I would travel all the way to Georgia for the service. I hadn’t seen him since high school. Hadn’t really talked to him either. If it hadn’t been for Facebook, I wouldn’t know a thing about his life. And I have no idea if he knew anything about mine.
But something kept gnawing at me. I had a sneaking suspicion if I didn’t make the trip, I would regret it later in life. This gut feeling that being present at his memorial service was something important. For reasons I couldn’t explain, I needed to be there—whether it made sense or not. When I talked about logistics with my husband and kids, no questions were asked. “I can’t decide if I should go,” I said one morning at breakfast, as we sat around the counter eating bowls of granola and yogurt.
“Of course you should go,” my eight-year-old said.
“You’ll see your old friends!” my eleven-year-old chimed in. They sensed how important this was to me. As we looked through old photo albums together and I shared memories of childhood, they felt the same Spirit I did.
The Spirit calling me to go.
My husband cleared his calendar and I bought plane tickets not even 48 hours before the first flight. Within half an hour, I worked out the major details of the trip. Between family and friends, I wouldn’t need to spend a dime on lodging or ground transportation, and next to nothing on food. It was a testament to just how deep a community I still have in the metro-Atlanta area. From Cumming (40 miles north of the city) to Orchard Hill (52 miles south of the city), I had two places to stay and six different people offering to take me wherever I needed to go in the short 30 hours I’d be there.
The group of people gathered at the funeral to remember my friend was a testament to how bright his light shined, all the days of his life.
Those of us who knew him as children and teens—now adults living all over the country—shared memories of Christmas pageants, youth-led worship services, and getting the evil eye from our pastor when we quietly told jokes to each other in the back pew. Memories of church camp, youth lock-ins, and confirmation days. Of signing up to help in the nursery to get out of worship on Sunday mornings, of pancake suppers, Easter sunrise services, and finding the face of Jesus in the rocks behind the altar.
Young adults who were teenagers when my friend led youth ministry in his own young(ish) adult years remembered the way he encouraged them in their faith and empowered them to lead the way adults once empowered us.
And those that met him more recently, as adults, told stories of his joy of being a father, his commitment to acceptance and welcoming people from all walks of life, and his loyalty to friends near and far.
Even the sadness of his death brought about light. Reunited with friends, we shared tear-laden hugs over the loss of our friend. We hadn’t seen each other in a decade or two, but through gentle words in quiet moments, we offered apologies and forgiveness for horrible ways we treated each other as teens and young adults. Joined together again in the sanctuary of our youth, surrounded by people who molded us and shaped us into the people we are today, we sang songs, heard scripture, and prayed for resurrection and peace in times of grief. It was a memorial service for one person’s life, but also for a powerful chapter of mine.
When I walked into that sanctuary the first night back in town, memories began to flood my mind. Memories forgotten until I was standing in the same place where they happened long ago. This congregation of my childhood and youth was where I first experienced a glimpse of the Kingdom of God. A place where I was always forgiven. Always accepted for who I was created to be. In returning to say farewell to my childhood friend, I experienced the same warm welcome I received every Sunday as a child. Endless hugs, kisses on my forehead, constant reminders that I have always been—and still am—called Beloved.
Now I am the parent of children in a small congregation of mostly older adults. Until now, I didn’t realize part of the reason our church feels like home is because it reminds me of my own church as a child. The way other adults treat my children as a vital part of worship life—and not just children to be quieted and shushed. I am experiencing what my own mother experienced then: the love and support of a faithful church community.
Parenthood is perhaps the greatest joy of my life. And yet also, it feels impossible some days. Life’s too hard to go it alone. This past Sunday, I walked into our church sanctuary to find my kids already sitting in the pew with another family—without much room for me. Feeling a smile creep from one ear to another, I waved to them and slid into a different pew, grateful my kids have now what I had then. A community that illustrates what it truly means to be part of the Kingdom of God.
I was elated when I got both arugula and ricotta in my winter farm share pickup earlier this month. These stuffed shells are one of my favorite meals. I typically make a double batch and freeze half. I use whatever greens I have on hand.
We haven’t eaten soup every day this month, so I’m still working my way through this list of soup recipes. It looks like March is going to be colder than February, so it makes for another great soup month. The White Bean and Rice with Turmeric remains one of my favorites.
This recipe for Taco Torte never lets me down. Think mexican lasagna, only crispier and even more delish.
A couple of weeks ago I wrote about motherhood and home-cooked meals. Along the same lines, I thought this essay was thought-provoking, as was this study addressing the same topic. What are your thoughts on the subject? I’d love to hear from you.
This review of Caleb’s Crossing (gifted article) is well worth the read, even if you don’t read the book. Word on the street is there’s a movie currently in production and I kinda can’t wait.
I adored this graphic essay about maiden names. As someone who has a complicated relationship with my dad and have also been married, divorced, and re-married, names can get so complicated, #amiright?
And this article about how singing in church bonds us hit really close to home after returning to my childhood congregation earlier this month. I’ve always felt music changing me from the inside out, so it was interesting to read that science is beginning to show proof that it’s true.
Here’s a quick list of things published on the blog since last month’s newsletter:
the start of something new (a love poem)
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And in case you missed it here on Substack, I started a new Kitchen Challenge:
And celebrated the hands that prepare our food:
I’m listening to The Other Side of Midnight by Simone St. James. Her books make for fantastic audiobooks—they are perfect for long car rides or walks alone.
My hold on Remarkably Bright Creatures finally came through at the library and I devoured it in three days. It may end up being the most creative book I read all year.
I read For the Love of the Bard for book club all in one day while on a bus, in airports, and on planes. It reminded me of Gilmore Girls, and while I thought it got off to a shaky start, I ended up really enjoying it.
And for February’s Book Challenge at the library, I read The Last Days of Dogtown by Anita Diamant. We have hiked through Dogtown once or twice, so it has been fun to imagine the community that once lived there.
Lent is upon us. Instead of creating a new playlist this month, I updated my Lenten playlist from last year. Tunes to help you slow down, reflect, and breathe in the goodness of God.
Loving God,
Fill our hearts and minds with an awareness of your Spirit. Grant us a willingness to see how you are working in the world around us. Help us slow down and allow the stillness of Lent to change us from the inside out. Give us courage to experience you in new and meaningful ways.
Gracious God, thank you for your steadfast love and unending mercy. Throughout these next forty days, refresh our bodies and our minds. Fill us up and give us new energy to portray your love to the world.
We ask all these things in the name of your Son, our Savior, Jesus Christ.
Amen.
Until next month,
