I have been thinking all week about my family that has passed on. It’s not unusual. We just passed Memorial Day. In church we remembered those who gave their lives for the cause of freedom. We pledged ourselves again to the flag and held a moment of silence.
It brought back memories of when I would spend time with my grandparents and we would travel on Memorial Day weekends to the graves of the Josephs who lived only in family memory. I know where all the Josephs are buried because of Memorial Day. I know where the Tandys and the Tennys are buried because of Memorial Day.
This week has brought back memories of my father. The time he cooked dry hung steak and I complained about how it smelled. The time Brenda and I knocked over the big bookcase in the old house on 360 Front St, became trapped under it and he rescued us.
This week has brought back memories of my mother. The time I got hives because I was so nervous about school and she called out of work to watch over me. Her last year when dementia was stealing her from us and improving her sense of humor all at once.
I remember my grandparents. Ice cream cones and Moxie soda. Walking on a frozen lake in the middle of winter and mowing the camp lawn with the electric mower.
So many memories that steel me for the life I am living now. Memories are powerful things, healing things. Even the traumatic memories when reframed in grace have their place in making us whole. We need to remember. We need our stories.
Notes From the Vicarage 