I have a memory like a … what do you call it? That thing in the kitchen you use to sift the stuff you want from the stuff you don’t. A sieve! That’s it. I have a memory like a sieve.
I joke about it at times, and about how I have to outsource remembering to Aileen since her memory is far superior to mine, but I can’t deny that it gets frustrating at times. It gets discouraging, too, like when I cannot remember even the highlights of experiences I’ve enjoyed, books I’ve read, or sermons I’ve been blessed by. (To be fair, there are benefits too, like when I cannot remember who has dissed me online, who has insulted me in real life, or the times I’ve agonizingly stuck my foot in my mouth.)
I suppose you could make the accusation that what I am about to say is just a coping mechanism, but I think there is more to it than that. I have come to take comfort in the reality that what I remember of an event is less important than what transpired during the event. What I remember of a book is of less consequence than what happened in my mind as I read the book. What I remember of a sermon matters less than what happened in my heart during the preaching of that sermon. Where I am prone to judge the impact or importance of something by what I remember of it days, weeks, or years later, I should place greater weight on what happened at the time and in the moment.
I am always glad to see people jotting notes during a sermon, but I do agree with those preachers who have described the joy of seeing the pens slow and then stop as the listener is so drawn into the preaching that it becomes written on his heart instead of on a page. It’s a joy when the paper-scratching of information is transformed to the soul-etching of conviction. I have long since learned that God sometimes works his Word into my heart the deepest in those times when even a day later I couldn’t recount the outline or describe the content.
Similarly, I know that God has worked in me as I have read good and edifying books. I may not remember a lot about those books, and months later may not even remember the fact that I read them in the first place, but they have done their work in me nonetheless. Even non-spiritual books are beneficial for the value they bring in information, illustration, and entertainment. It all matters.
While obviously I do have many fond memories of my son, I sometimes find myself wishing I had more—that I had paid greater attention or jotted down some of the more impactful moments before he went to be with the Lord. I wish I had more vivid memories of the early days of my marriage and the early years of parenting. I can be discouraged when I find memories are growing hazier or have perhaps disappeared altogether. Yet here, too, I trust that the greatest work—the love, the joy, the fun, the satisfaction—was experienced in the moment and that remembering or forgetting is of little consequence. I know we had good times together, and I know they were significant then, despite the way they’ve faded into the past.
I know we had good times together, and I know they were significant then, despite the way they’ve faded into the past.
I’m reminded of George Marsden’s epic biography of Jonathan Edwards when he says that “Critics of the awakenings alleged that when people heard many sermons in one week they would not be able to remember much of what they had heard. Edwards countered, ‘The main benefit that is obtained by preaching is by impression made upon the mind in the time of it, and not by the effect that arises afterwards by a remembrance of what was delivered.’”
I’m convinced that what is true of sermons is true of life. And for that reason, I can rest assured that my satisfaction and sanctification are unaffected by my memory. I have been blessed, strengthened, edified, and encouraged, even when I don’t exactly remember how.
