THE GIFT OF MEMORY

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

Sometimes, a musing forces me to get to my keyboards, even when I would rather play a game, or just sleep and laze around without bothering my mind. Today, the culprit is memories of my dear father. Fathers’ Day is celebrated every June, and by God’s providence, my father was assigned the same month to commemorate his birth.

Have you ever had friends or family members hesitate to talk about someone you love who has died? They do not want to trigger your memory with those questions for fear that it will reawaken your grief? Well, this happens to me a lot, and I often tell them that I like to remember, because when you can no longer see that special person, when you cannot just pick up a phone and call them or send them a text message, when you cannot write them a letter (just because), when you cannot be upset with them and tell them off, when you cannot buy them a gift (especially when you see something that would have excited them, and you want to really show them how much they mean to you with that extravagant gift or tiny token), when you cannot pray for them because they don’t need your prayers any more, their memory is succour.

Once, there was this special person. You probably recognised how special they are, and still took them for granted at the same time, because you did not contemplate that the time would come when they would be absent from this world. Or maybe you realised that they would die eventually because death is the destiny of everyone, but you just assumed that you would have enough time with them before that would happen. Once their existence was so certain, and their presence was so sure. You even filled the dreams of your future with roles for them.

When you dreamt of accomplishing milestones and achieving great things, they were supposed to be there to celebrate with you. And then, just like that, one day, they are no longer here. Maybe it was a gradual passing, with a terminal illness, or maybe it was unexpected, like a surgery they were supposed to survive, or treatable illness or injuries, or an accident, or that they just slumped and died, or did not just wake up from their sleep, or just anything at all. Just like that, they are no more, at least not anywhere you can see or hear them.

And suddenly, everything about them becomes special, even the mundane. You wish for even just one more day, and whether you got the chance to say goodbye or not, you just want to have them for a little longer. You remember words unspoken, and questions unasked or unanswered. And you know that even their seats can be occupied and someone else may own their belongings, they can never ever be replaced, because there is only one of them. Their memory is your gift. Their memory is more steadfast than pictures or other physical mementoes or monuments. Their memory assures you that you did life with them and that they are real, even though the rest of the world forgets.

The memory of my father is a gift! However, today I realised that for some people, the memory of their parents is a curse. When I remember my father, I have beautiful pictures. Of course, he was not a perfect human – he was flawed. But his flaws are not an unexplainable burden or shameful legacy. But I grasp that some people would rather not remember their parents sometimes, because their memory is a painful burden. And for some people to cope, they must remember selectively because the beautiful pictures of their parents are seriously tainted by their parents’ private and public evil. Sometimes, they live in denial that such evils happened, or they shut their eyes and refuse to see.

How do you remember a father who was a murderous police officer or soldier? How do you remember the father who killed an okada rider because he refused to succumb to extortion? How do you remember the father who assaulted your mother? How do you remember the father who was a rapist? How do you remember the father who looted a nation’s treasury? How do you remember the lavish holidays that you spent or the luxurious gifts you got at the expense of a nation’s healthcare, education or security system? How do you remember the father whose statue must be pulled down in the future, whose name will be erased from the structures named after him, because he was a murderer or worse, a mass murderer, or even culpable in a genocide? How do you remember the one who was your abuser?

Humans are complex, and parents are humans. The ones we love sometimes fail us, and some failures have more damaging impact and consequences. Pondering these things compelled me to acknowledge three important things.

1)    We do not choose our parents. We have no say in whether our parents’ memories will be blessings or curses.

2)    We can determine, by our choices, whether our children’s memories of us will be blessings or curses.

3)    There is saving grace and hope for even the most despicable of parents. Yes, the same Jesus who promised paradise to a criminal who was executed alongside Him offers redemption to even the most despicable of parents.

One of my favourite Bible verses is Proverbs 10 verse 7: The memory of the righteous is a blessing, but the name of the wicked will rot. I think one reason that my father’s memory is a blessing is that he accepted the redemptive grace that Jesus Christ offers. Some of my memories of him are of his commitment to his walk with God, especially to seeking God’s forgiveness, to seeking the forgiveness of those he wronged, and to forgiving those who wronged him. Jesus Christ exchanged my father’s rags of condemnation with his righteousness, and that is why my father’s memory is a blessing.

We do not know when the bell of death will toll for us. We only have now. Dear reader, you don’t have to leave your children and the rest of the world with the legacy of a curse, with a name that is destined to rot. You can decide today, and every day you have left, to give us a gift that outlasts every other asset – A BLESSED MEMORY!