I Will Remember You… Will You Remember Me?

 I awoke this morning with these words from the Sarah McLachlan song by that title. Coming from basically a musical family of sorts, it is not something new. Quite often down through the years, or at least the past 47 years of married life, my wife and I will often comment that there has been a song on our minds and in our hearts, only to find out it is the very same song. Strangely, I have never found that to be in the least bit odd. We had been a musical couple for many years until our voices began to give out. Medical problems can creep in and change how we live life and musical ability and our voices can be part of the loss. No matter the trauma it may cause there still remains that love for harmony, a deep appreciation for both lyrics and melody and the peace gained from allowing ourselves to be immersed in its beauty. I digressed… or did I?

 Most will know if you have reached those golden years when you begin to rehearse life, that memories can lead us down a fascinating path some days. In retirement, I have had more time to begin to fathom out those things which were real and others which were perhaps no more than wishful thinking. Psychologists have identified 7 different types of memory which help us to both reflect on our pasts, and recollect moments which have shaped our lives. They range from childhood influences to motor skills allowing us to walk, talk and process ideas, based on experiences found in life. These days many are more concerned about the two basic and best known of our memory labels outside of those 7 psychological identities. They are our long and short-term memories.

 I began to worry about my memory some years ago. There were and are days where I have trouble carrying on a decent conversation without struggling for what seems like the simplest of words. I have always struggled with names. I can remember being warned not to identify someone as I was being approached perhaps while shopping in a mall out of town. I might blurt out a name and have it totally wrong embarrassing both the person and myself in the calamity of the situation. Yet, I also find that like so many others who reflect on the passing of years; I begin to meander down through the history of my life while reflecting on my journey and where it has led me. I mentioned the importance of two factors in localized memory reality and wishful thinking. The later, being wishful thinking can be broken down into two segments, the first being what we wished had happened and the other what we perceived has happened. Thus we have to be careful how are memories are interpreted, it that is where we begin to go with all that. I digressed… Yup! I did!

 I am not a person to visit graveyards. There is a stipulation on that comment I must admit. I have a fascination with family history and in some contexts, I wish to visit either personally or virtually (“Find a Grave.com”) and revisit the lives of family members, in a genealogical context. I have often told those searching for family history that after 3-4 generations, much of the history becomes clouded by miss-information due to poor records or error in transcription. But, I do visit is the point, on occasion. A big moment in the life of our family at times has been on November 11^th. We have been taking our family wreaths to the local graveyard and placing them in memory of those who have served or have been lost in the conflicts to protect our freedom.

 I have taken time to reflect of late (and perhaps over the last decade) on how we remember those whose lives have touched us; the members of immediate family, close friends and acquaintances that became important factors in the shaping of our lives. Have you had occasion in life to be touched by someone who has had little in association with your path in life, previous to a single contact, yet something clicked like a switch turning you onto a new route, down a new search? Yes, many will not admit or perhaps realize it has happened, but it does. I think about those things and wonder if life had been so much different had I lived differently, paid closer attention to the factors that shaped me and less attention to what could be. I admit freely at this juncture that there were times when I wanted more, sometimes searched for more, but mostly found contentment in being invisible. I have admitted in the past that there is much reality in the introvert being tugged into positions where extroversion becomes a necessary element of the job. Being truly shy by nature, I had to learn to step up and do the job and this can lead to places where our comfort level is taxed and it exacts a cost that most times cannot be recovered.

What do we choose to remember, can be a constant irritation while on the other hand comfort to others. My memories are mine until I choose to rehearse them in one manner or another. The odd part of the exercise in writing this blog through the years has been my personal evaluation of its importance to both family and others. I have hesitated for months of late to even begin to put thoughts to print wondering about the relevance in terms of readership and historical value to the family. The truth is I have come down to this decision; I write for the same reason my Mom did, that being personal satisfaction in presenting my thoughts as an outlet of critical analysis of events, moments and personal insights.

For many who read my blog, I am just another writer who has or thinks he has something worth sharing and they read to satisfy curiosity. To others, I may be a moment of inspiration when my meagre attempt at life’s journey sparks a reflective moment for them. It matters not really, for it is my journey, my exercise, my attempt at settling my own mind on where my heart is going at the time of inspiration. But, I remember…

 I was told once that my thoughts were being recorded. I cried, not from anxiety, but from two emotions that were stirred at that moment. A literal stranger at the time cared enough to have a file of mere thoughts and words projecting who I am, while immediate family, for the most part, would rather not take to time to read the ramblings recorded in a life journal. Sarah McLachlan penned the words which rang in my mind this morning, for reasons that only she will know. But, the words of that song elicit meaning which is as varied as they are many and their interpretation can be as personal as the individual reading or hearing them. I want to remember. I want to remember with joy in my heart, but somehow may days it is laced with sadness, for the thing which I cannot change. I want to remember the truth, not memories laced with circumstance and stress, which often change both a perception of events and sally the honesty of the moments being remembered. I want to be both kind and honest in how I remember; life does not always deal us, as the saying goes, “the hand we want” but gives us the “hand we are dealt”!

 I remember the significance of moments, there I wade through the timelines of events and I see the faces of those who have had both positive and negative effects on my life. Some I must love; others I just love and most others are found under the umbrella of a cast of characters encountered along life’s journey. It is not my call to erase someone from memory; it is God’s command that I love as I have been loved... Love without dissimulation and that is difficult. Sometimes it is best to love from a distance and that is both unsettling and a hardship that I have decided to bear. Life’s elements of relational interaction do not always come with a guarantee and space is best in those cases. Do I want life in those circumstances to be different…? Absolutely! But I need peace and the only avenue for true peace is that which we gain from Christ the maker and giver of all peace.

Most who read will not know me… that is a given, considering the readership. Those who do know me or just read my blog, here’s the take on today’s thought… You are important, you are of value, and you do make a difference… You are loved! How far we take those elements of our personhood depends on our interaction with life and those around us, including those we meet in whatever venue we are afforded day today. Yesterday, I was reminded of a person I knew in my teen years. He became a friend year’s later on social media. We have not maintained a close friendship, yet we are identified as friends. We are Brothers in Christ and as he is hurting; my heart hurts with him. My joy is to pray for him, his family and those will care for him during this dark moment in his journey. You see, memory can be an odd portion of our lives… I am reminded that his lot is the lot of many, and many prayed for our own son in his darkest hours.

 I will remember you… will you remember me? It is not just a few words from a lyric with both hidden and practical meaning; it may be a wake-up call for each of us to take time to be aware of what is happening in the “now”! Life can be hectic and we close both our minds and our hearts to what is all around us. Take time to smell the roses, enjoy both sunrise and sunset, be aware of both the joys and woes of others for one day “you” may need the awareness of others and most of all remember this… you are loved! I would never be an advocate, proclaiming the importance of wallowing in other’s sorrow, but just be reminded that the pain of others needs our attention, most importantly in prayer. Take time to pray, and in thanksgiving give praise where it is due… It is found in God’s love for you and others.

 Life is a journey to the edge. Today, my journey has been quite unexpected, yet it affords me an opportunity once again to reflect on where my memories lead, how it affects me daily and why it is important to manage interpretation in light of experiences and circumstances in life. I am not always comfortable with the edge, even though it may seem so at times. God takes me there to remind me as He did Paul… If I am in control, He can’t be and that is a downfall we all entrap ourselves in, in life. So as always the fear of being near the edge is normal, but it is a matter of how we define the view from there. Be blessed and I will remember… will YOU?

A Simple Act of Kindness

I don’t remember “everything” about the daily routines of all the pastorates I have served. One particular stop in the journey was in Weymouth, NS. It was a 3-point charge; meaning that I served 3 churches (which meant I had 3 services per Sunday.) It was my first big challenge, but I knew that if I was to work in rural Nova Scotia, I must be prepared to have that type of situation. My previous ministries were in single congregations, but I felt so strongly the call on my life, that after some pleading from a dear retired pastor on that field, I moved to this my first 3 church field.

I will never forget my first day in the pulpit after all the dust of interviews, meetings and moving had settled. I began my rotation around the field (pastorate) in a lovely little church with folks that took their time to welcome me and my family, but then rushed off to my second church. 

 It was a small but majestic building, reminding me that there was an anchor for Christ in this tiny community. The congregation was also small in number, and elderly in terms of being well over the average of 65. I remember wondering what I might do to not just salvage this ministry, but enliven it for Christ. The shared feeling in this congregation was different than that of the other two on the field, I was to find out later. It seemed that there was an abiding sense of the end, knowing that without an injection of youth, the work of active ministry there would be very difficult. In the work of promoting growth in the 20^th century, it was a well-known fact that you needed programs to both interest and excite youth, or otherwise be ready to gear your focus only on ministry to seniors. This would also involve involvement in programs and there was no hope of that level movement to be found there.

But, was ministry there something that I could accomplish? I have to face the truth these days, as reflect on those days in fulltime ministry... this congregation was in the last throes of survival mode.  It is not always easy to look at oneself and be reminded that I was overwhelmed, outgunned and felt very alone in ministry those years. I did have a few “shining stars” that kept me breathing, but in the words of a dear friend, “I knew that they would drive you away!”, I still considered myself a failure in that one small congregation. That same person, who cried as he spoke those words, was a mentor, a prayer warrior and a dear, dear person. He had known the hardships of trying to hold the reigns of a ministry doomed to a slow steady death, and he wanted me to know that he understood.

I had reached the church that first morning and was greeted by a few eager elderly people and introduced once again, my wife and family, being those still living at home. One small lady, not clambering to be first to greet us stood back having a hint of a smile, and a very kind face, awaiting her turn to say “Hi”. Having made all the introductions we began the service. As I mounted the stage to the pulpit I was met with a card and a glass of water. The name was simply written and conveyed a message that both reminded me of why I was there and gave heart to this somewhat shaky preacher. It was a simple act of kindness that lasted each Sunday while I was there. If that lady was ill, or away, someone was instructed to provide a glass of water for “our minister”!

There have been others who provided water for the “thirsty preacher” down through the years, but never on a regular, unsolicited timetable like the dedication that Phyllis put into that act. We often speak of “comfort food”, but do we ever identify a glass of water as such I wonder? I did! Why would a simple glass of water bring comfort you may ask! It may seem strange to many, but I am an introvert, I have always been very shy and always had to battle to overcome, just to survive. People always laugh at me when I confess that hidden secret, but it is something I have battled since my childhood. It took years in study and preparation toward helping others that I understood why. That glass of water said, “There is someone here today that values your presence and is caring for your needs!”  

That sweet lady was a widow, living alone, caring for her pets and those who entered into her field of interest. He full name doesn’t really matter in the big scheme of life, but I am going to insert a picture here of my friend, and for those who did know her, they will both recognize her face and remember her kindnesses. 

Phyllis was a welcoming person when I visited her in her home. On several different occasions, we chatted about quilts, her knitting and she always asked about my wife Karen and children. I will never forget going to visit Phyllis that the last time before leaving Weymouth. She seemed truly saddened by my news and as I offered to return her mug, even though she had told me that last Sunday to take it with me. Her kind answer was simply this, “Perhaps you will think of me when you use it”.

It started out as a simple act of kindness and continued in my ministry as a reminder that there is always the hand of Christ being offered in the midst of struggle and a feeling of defeat. I was not happy leaving that pastorate, there were many reasons to stay, but I felt the call of God on my life to be nearer my own family and ageing parents. It may have been seen only as an exit from trial, but it was also a joyful reminder as well that God has a plan for all that we do.

A small cup of water; more than a mere drink to quench a thirst, a reminder that those we least expect are being the love of Christ in the midst of our journey. It doesn’t seem like much, I am sure, this plain glass mug!

Yet, it is at the forefront of our kitchen cupboards; I use it 3 or more times daily, and it is exclusively for “my” use only. Does that seem odd perhaps?  Not at all! I remember Phyllis and her small act of kindness every time I put that mug to my lips. My wife tends it gently as she washes our dishes and I dry it carefully and put it back on its shelf to be used again, and again, and again… perhaps until I can no longer grasp it in my arthritic hands.

I know that this is not the most exciting bog that I have written, but here’s the deal… We all need to remember that it only takes one small act of kindness, with the right motives promoting it, and it can make a huge difference in someone’s life. I was being loved and I knew it, and that means so much to me as I look back over years of ministry. She is but one dear person who has helped make a difference; there actually have been many, but Phyllis’s mug is here with me every day, and I give thanks for this sweet lady’s small act of kindness! This is not just about living near the edge, I know… this was a cup of comfort I found while living there during that time.

Be a blessing to someone… it won’t harm your image, it doesn’t need to cost a huge amount of time or money. Just love in a way that suits who you are, but do it with sincerity of heart and purpose… That is what Phyllis did for me and that cup reminds me of that each day!