In Memory Of

It’s been nearly thirty years since I stepped into the church where I attended Sunday School and was confirmed. While I live a mere fifteen minutes away from that quaint place of worship, I feel I’ve journeyed a thousand miles from it–and my childhood.

As I rode along with my parents to a funeral for a family friend, I began to sense a settling of my past and a regret that perhaps I had forgotten who I was and where I came from. We entered through the basement of the church where the musty smell wrapped around me like a favorite blanket. When my eyes set upon some of our oldest, best friends, I couldn't hold back my smile–despite the sad circumstance.

When we took our seats in the pew, my dad had to tap me on the shoulder to inform me he’d be sitting by my mother. Apparently, I had fallen back into my childhood, when I always took center seat between my parents. And as I listened to the tribute being given to the cheerful woman who died too young of Alzheimer’s, I decided to be thankful for my own memories. A crocheted Lord's Prayer, still hanging behind the alter. The Christmas programs, arranged by the ladies of the church. The potlucks, which ended in unfortunate gastric events from my inability to stop eating.

After the service, we had lunch in the basement where I attended my Sunday Schooling. I tempered my food choices this time. But I also felt an enormous amount of gratitude as I ate the open-faced sandwiches and cookies, staring at the paneled walls, listening to my father and his cronies. They still made me laugh, now poking fun of their age and reflecting on their wilder youth. I had heard the story of the pony in the basement of the church before. But there's nothing quite like listening to people share stories during those moments when we really appreciate our lives.

As I got up to refill my glass of lemonade, I noticed how many of the same ladies from my youth were providing lunch, with the same generous, loving spirit. I never would've pictured myself having such an engaging conversation with my old my old Sunday School teacher. But I did! I would've, should've  visited with her longer, actually, but everyone in my family (including me) has an incredible itch to always leave gatherings early. There are always tasks to be done.

Needless to say, I no longer belong to that sweet, little church. I've converted to Catholicism, even teaching religious education and serving as a lector in my new parish. But when we left the funeral at the Methodist Church in Kirkman, I not only felt sad about saying goodbye to our friend who had passed away, but I was quite sentimental about walking out of the church and driving out of town. There's something very peaceful about visiting the  place where much of your identity is formed.

Memory is precious. Memories should be cherished. And most of all, we should share them for as long as we can.