Memories--the things that shape us, teach us, and call back to us over time

Memories are one of the great things about being human. It's not the same as just remembering. Memories are not just about facts, about something that we saw or experienced. In fact, memories may very well depart from the actual facts.

Memories are things that we remember that have meaning and the focus is on the meaning that we ascribe, not the event. Some memories are joyful, and some are quite painful, but they are all very important. We can remember without it being a memory, just as we can sometimes have memories that are only loosely based on what really happened.

Memories are distinct from remembering. We don't just remember a place when we see it again or a person when we see them again. We remember what happened there or with that person. We don't just remember what happened, we remember what we felt. We don't just remember what we felt, we assign meaning and significance and that makes it a memory. We relive, we enjoy, we feel again, but more than that, it becomes a part of us. It shapes who we are, and it continues to reshape us as we come back to it.

Today is the 5th anniversary of my father's death and it's appropriate to think back on him and his life. There are many memories that come up in my mind and I will share one here.

I remember one morning when we woke up to a deep snowfall of more than a foot (I think I remember hearing 18 inches). Yes, those things occasionally happen in Alabama. I don't remember how old I was, but I believe it was my early teens or maybe preteens, and I know it was before I got my drivers license. I had heard that it was going to snow and I woke up the next morning to a beautiful landscape that I had never seen before. I wanted to get out in it. But, I remember that my dad was gone. Having grown up in Michigan, a foot of snow was no problem for him and he had driven away very early that morning.

Mom said that he had gone to the church. It was Saturday, and even as a child, I remember thinking that that was strange because it wasn't Sunday. But, I also remember that her face didn't look quite normal. I asked why he had gone to the church, but she wouldn't say. She just said, "He'll be back soon." Even kids know that there are times when you don't want to ask more questions. It was obvious that this was one of those times. My granny Maggie was also doing things around the house with her head down and not speaking. Something made me feel uneasy, but the snow was calling and there was excitement in the air.

My dad soon returned with a big smile and both parents joined us outside in the snow. We had great fun and I didn't think anymore about the morning.  Whatever was bothering them earlier was completely gone and I soon forgot about it. Only later that day did I find out what it was.

But, to understand it, there are a few other things that need explanation. My father was one of a group of families who started a new church when I was quite young. At that time, to have a church, you had to have a building and they bought a piece of land and built a building. They didn't have any denominational funding, but had some help from the mother church. Nonetheless, funds were limited. My dad cut up some paper grocery bags (for those under 30, grocery stores didn't ask paper of plastic, because paper was all they offered) and, using a carpenters straight edge, drew up plans for the building. I don't remember seeing them, but I'm sure they weren't the detailed drawings that most builders work from. But, they couldn't afford an architect and couldn't hire a builder. They did most of the work themselves. After work, the men went directly to the 'church' under construction and started work. The wives brought supper and the kids later. We did our homework sitting on stacks of materials and then helped sweep up the sawdust before leaving to go home for baths and bed. I was around 2nd or 3rd grade then, but I still remember those evenings playing with other kids and helping the grownups when we were all 'working on the church together.'

Yes, that's not what we normally mean by 'working on the church' or 'building the church' today, and I'd agree that the focus shouldn't be on a building and maybe even, in some cases, a building isn't even necessary. But, on the other hand, they weren't just building a building. They were building a community, a fellowship of believers. I don't know if they realized that at the time, but I do know that my dad talked to me about it later when I was doing a report in Bible College. He said that if he had to do it again, he would likely do a lot of things different, but that even if they had the money to do so, he wouldn't hire a builder, that the experience of working together on something that required a significant commitment of time together was a crucial part of the strength of the church in those early years. It gave them a bond of trust and community that they couldn't have bought.

But, that has nothing to do with a snowstorm, so let me get back to that. You see, there were, I think, only 5 or 6 families involved, but they were looking ahead with great dreams. They wanted room for at least 250 -300 people to worship together. That requires a wide span without pillars to hold up the roof. My dad, with my mom's brother Uncle Floyd, had already built our house and then Uncle Floyd's house, but none of that comes close to any kind of span that the church building would need. That was their only real building experience. My dad drew up the plans for the trusses also on those grocery bags and he did so without Google, an engineering degree, or a Trusses for Dummies book.

And, that's what I didn't really understand that day. Snow is heavy and it builds up on a roof. And, the south is not really used to that kind of problem. That night, after our day of playing in the snow, a warm supper, and an hour or so of TV, Mom asked her usual question, "Well, how about a piece of cake or pie before we go to bed." She and Dad and Granny Maggie sat on the couch with their cake and coffee and I sat at the table in the other room with mine (no coffee, though, and kids were not allowed to eat in the den). And that's when I found out. I heard them talking in the other room.

When the church was complete, my dad was talking to an engineer and when he found that my Dad had built a church and had designed the trusses himself without any experience in designing trusses, he was astonished. He scoffed and told my dad that there was no way that he'd have been able to know how to do that right. He predicted that they'd soon see the roof sagging, that it wouldn't stand up to any load, and would collapse in a few years. Over the years, my Dad had been watching for any sagging, standing on a ladder and sighting down the ceiling, and climbing into the attic occasionally to look. I didn't know about that at the time.

But, that evening I heard him telling my Mom that he could finally rest easily. We had had the heaviest snowfall that we could probably ever expect and it was the heavy 'wet' snow. He had driven to the church that morning half expecting to see the roof collapsed, but it was still there. He had sighted along the ceiling and there was no sagging. He had climbed into the attic to check and everything was as firm as ever. He mentioned the engineer and he felt some pride  (well-deserved, I think). I didn't quite understand much then, but I did remember feeling proud that my dad was smarter than that old engineer.

Later I found out the details that I've share with you above. Later, when I was studying basic engineering courses in university, I understood just how big of a feat that actually was. My dad hadn't finished 10th grade. His dad had died when he was 6 and his mom had struggled to raise a family during the Great Depression. My dad dropped out of school to work and then to join the Navy in World War 2.

I'm a great proponent of education, especially in today's increasingly complex world. I'd push anyone to go as far as they can go. But, no one should assume that one has to have a degree to have knowledge. I've seen people who have several degrees and with high grade averages whom I would not trust in their field of study.

And, I'm still proud of my Dad, if you haven't already noticed that by now. That's one of my memories and one that I've often come back to. It shaped my thinking. I don't assume that a formal education is any guarantee of success. I've learned the wisdom of listening to experts, but still evaluating their advice for myself. I've learned that I should not let others look down on me for any lack of formal training in some area and feel inferior. I've learned that I should also not do that to others either, and not assume that, if they don't have a degree or a lot of experience in some area, that their contribution to the discussion should be discounted.

And, I've learned that, even though I have 'learned' these things, I still forget them at times. I can still feel inferior in the company of experts, can still be afraid to contribute to things that are outside my area of expertise, and I can still dismiss others' ideas because, "What do they know?" The memory is to give me a reminder, to shake up my thinking again and again.

And, that's what memories are for. They are reminders that take us back to lessons over and over. I'm thankful for memories. I hope I can keep learning.

Oh, and that building is still there. The last time I was there, I remember looking carefully at the roof ridge line and when I entered, I looked carefully at the ceiling. It's been more than 50 years now, and it's still strong as ever.

This Could Be the Last Time

Last week I preached at a small church in Hualien on Taiwan's east coast. During the musical part of the worship service, the man controlling the PowerPoint for the songs stood at the side with his daughter in his arms (as you can see in the picture). He held this position throughout the entire musical part of the service, using the remote in his hand to control the slides but continuing to hold his daughter. I remember wishing that I could do that again with my own children.

I kept thinking about how tiring this must be. It's one thing to hold an infant, but this little girl is long past the "infant" stage. She must have been at least 5 years old and pretty heavy to hold for such a long time, but she also stayed still, content in his arms. I wondered if he could hold her for the whole worship service, and from there began to wonder how much longer before she got so big he couldn't do it anymore. It couldn't be much longer, as fast as kids grow. In fact, could this be the last time.

I remember holding my own children and how enjoyable that was, but I can't do that any more. They're as big as I am or bigger. I wondered when was the last time I held mine that way. There was certainly a "last time." However I don't remember when that happened. What would have changed if I had known then that it would be the last time to hold my son or daughter? If I had known, would I have held them tighter? Would I have determined that I could surely do it again? Would I have looked at them differently? Would I have cried?


But, I didn't know. It just ended at some point and neither of us knew that something had happened which was final and would never be repeated. It just ended. Maybe I didn't even think about it. Maybe they didn't want it anymore as they wanted to express their "grownup status." I don't know.


That is life. Sometimes we can realize that it might be the last time. When I was with my dad last fall, I knew that it could well be the last time I saw him alive. I hoped that I would be wrong, and we made plans to live with him when we returned this summer, but I knew that there was at least a great chance that he would not live that long. I did try to savor the moment, but yet afraid to do so fully because I didn't want it to be the last time.

But, more often, we just don't think in terms of last times or only times. We don't have any real idea except for some kind of theoretical possibility way back in the far recesses of our mind. So many things happen that are precious, but we never realize that they are unique, that they will not happen again, and that they should be savored and cherished. We just live and go on oblivious to the wonder around us. Life is common and routine when it should not be. It is a wonder and it is fragile.


I know that I will never hold my daughter like that again. She's grown far to big. My two sons are even further from that possibility. I can still enjoy the wonder of their presence again every time I see them. They are wonderful creations of God and I'm honored and blessed to be their father. I must cherish them and any time I can have with them.


And yet, the same is true for everyone I meet. We have been commissioned by Christ to make disciples. That commission was not given just to a few who would be preachers, pastors, or missionaries. It was given to all who are disciples--believers of Christ. We think there will always be that chance to be a witness. There is no rush is there? So, we go on with life and leave behind the urgency that there should be.

What if this is the only time we'll meet? If I meet someone on the train or bus, I probably know that this will be my only chance to at least give them a good testimony of what God can do and to tell them about the gospel of grace. But, of those that I do know--family or friends--I seldom think that way. I don't wonder when that "last time" might be. They could be hit by a gravel truck tomorrow, but it doesn't have to be that macabre. It could just be that they will move away, or that our relationship will grow further apart.


Can I recognize the urgency of the gospel--to tell people that there is hope in life after all, that there is a God out there (and right here as well) who is all-powerful and yet knows us intimately, who is thoroughly and fully righteous and yet is gracious to us. There is a God who saves people--not just from hell, but to give them life more abundantly in the here and now. There is a God who wants us to walk with him and how will always be with us until the end of this world. I have to admit, I don't think of that as urgent.


Maybe I should be thinking more like that. Could this be the only time. Could this be the last time? If it were, and if I knew that it would be, what would or should I do differently?