The Forgotten Art of Remembrance
The year had been feeling like a bit of a miss in terms of hitting goals and making memories with my boys. I spent the majority of the fall curled up on the corner of the sofa, nauseous and oppressively tired. (For those of you who haven’t heard, we are expecting a baby girl in June♡). What began in August as a flame of ambition to make all of the memories and do all of the things (thank you, Pinterest, for keeping my expectations impossibly high) quickly fizzled to the dying embers of exhaustion by early November.
Somehow, we managed to continue checking things off the list, taking each day in stride until the first-trimester fog slowly began to lift. But by mid-spring, I couldn’t help but feel like the school year was a bit of a wash. Sure, we made it through our curriculum and had a handful of park days and library runs, and the boys didn’t seem any worse off for having lived through months of my pregnancy haze. But I was having a hard time remembering the good stuff.
I am making an appeal that remembering is not only a forgotten art, it is a sacred act.
Last year, I began the tradition of creating a yearbook as a way to commemorate our time of homeschooling together. I wanted a way to look back one day and be able to see the bold and sometimes subtle distinctions that marked each year. But this year I worried I wouldn’t have enough to pull from. How much did I really have to show between last August and now? In keeping with tradition, I decided to make one, anyway. And to my surprise, it gave me something far more meaningful than a collection of accolades. It gave me a fresh perspective and an invitation to take another look at a year I had already mentally written off.
Through fresh eyes, I flipped through pages of memories and moments I will forever cherish. For every picture void of elaborate outings and grandiose plans, there were a dozen photos of mud-splattered hands and homemade spartan helmets. There were toothy popsicle smiles and cozy read-alouds, piled on the sofa. Instead of seeing the vacancy of everything I couldn’t offer this season, I saw two boys brimming with life and excitement, each day its own fairytale with a new cast of characters.
I’m not always good at remembering. And when I do, I sometimes do it wrong. I remember the hard stuff — the tired eyes and heartburn. But I forget about the ordinary moments sprinkled throughout my days when my heart is so full it feels like it could burst. The goodnight kisses and homemade challah bread on Friday evenings. The tattered picnic blanket on the living room floor as we pile around a tray of snacks and watch a movie together. Sitting on the front porch watching the rain with my youngest, knowing as soon as it lets up the boys will be out the door in their underwear dancing through the puddles.
I think we’ve lost something as adults that I hope desperately to bring back. We’ve forgotten how to remember, how to reflect on the goodness of God. We pray prayers and make to-do lists and take note when things don’t go as planned. And then we start over the next day with new prayers and more lists, forgetting each item as soon as it is ticked off. How often do we pause to reflect on the answered prayers from the day before? How much time do we carve out for celebration when we’ve reached our goals before hastily setting new ones?
I am making an appeal that remembering is not only a forgotten art, it is a sacred act. Like the Israelites who so often went their own way, complaining and longing for more, Jesus is calling us to remember all He has already offered. Yes, let us continue to dream and move forward and focus on what lies ahead. But let us not forget to pause and reflect on this gift of a life we’ve been given today.
