Taken from Radiant Magazine - this online publication has been discontinued
I keep a book on my nightstand, tucked somewhere securely and tightly in the back—probably a little dusty, certainly a little worn, most of the time forgotten. It is a journal … sort of. It is more an ongoing letter, a correspondence between my husband and me. He sleeps next to me on the other side of the bed, inches away, so our book isn’t for the purpose of spanning the distance. It is for the sake of securing our souls; it is for the purpose of sealing tightly the tie that binds. So I keep this book close by.
I keep it to help me remember—to help us remember—what makes us … us.
It is a record of our moments—our story, its fairytale-like quality, the romance, the love, the dreams and hopes for our union. He started it nearly two years ago as an aid for his proposal, asking for my hand, hoping for the world, giving his heart.
I wrote back that night, revealing a lifetime spent imagining this moment, brought to fruition on one of the most faultless and perfect days. I asked for the world, I hoped for his hand and I accepted his heart, giving mine to him.
That was where the book started, the opening pages a preamble to our declaration of love. The pages that follow are our accounts of the marked significant moments. Our wedding day, our first days away from one another, our anniversary, the purchase of our first home together. Written not for the sake of communicating, but for the sake of remembering.
So this book, the one that I keep tucked in the back of my nightstand, is like a trigger. It is the way we recount the story, the noteworthy spans; it is our way of recalling what has been, of anticipating what can be and of taking pause in what is.
We read our book and we write in our book not because we think we will forget the day we got engaged or the day we got married—not because if we didn’t write it down, those days would be lost to us. We write because we are in danger of forgetting the significance—because sometimes in the mundane monotony of life, we overlook the soulfulness of our story, the lifeblood of our story. Writing it down enables us to remember.
There is another book in my nightstand. It is also a book of moments and of accounts, written by a God passionate about stories, passionate about recalling the substance that makes up our history with Him. It is a book of letters, from God to us, from us to God, and the messiness in the romance and the delicate beauty of pain. And we read this book, not because we will forget the narrative between the covers, but because in reading and rereading, we are marking its essence with value. Remembering what took place between the thin pages of my Bible reminds me where I came from, where I fit in the grand story and where this fervent account is headed. I remember, because somehow, wonderfully, mysteriously, I am a part of its telling.
I believe my God is a God who cares about remembering, who diligently and intentionally established His people as ones saturated in the discipline of recollecting. God remembered, still remembers His people. He remembered, still remembers His covenants. And with each significant moment, each defining event, there was time to commemorate. Feasts, fasting and festivals—all founded to dispel forgetfulness.
“I will not forget,” God assures. “Remember well,” He instructs.
And I don’t think His instruction was offered for practical purposes—because He feared a mental block where we would literally forget Him. I believe His encouragement, His plea to us is one made for our own sakes. Remember, because you will be tempted to live habitually without making the time to halt, to recall, what the big moments felt like.
And the big moments—they are your soulfulness. They are your lifeblood. You need them. Life is hinged on them. This story can’t go where it needs to go unless you remember where it has been.
We break bread, we share wine—and we do so in remembrance, in effort to evoke our spirits to wakefulness. We do so communally, we do so individually—and all the while we are branding on our souls the worth found in remembering.
There are two books in my nightstand. Both are precious. Both contain the spirit of my soul. Both spur me toward greatly anticipated tomorrows, and both equally incite me to take the time to look back. The story is bigger than right now. Much of the story is found in ceremoniously pausing to remember. Slow down. Remember. Stand still. Remember. Wait. And remember.
Otherwise, I’ll miss it. I’ll lose my place. I will overlook my history, and I will be tempted to forget. And I can’t forget. Too much is at stake, the journey with my husband, the romance with my God. As strong, as pure and as necessary as the pull is toward what awaits the next day, the next page, there is the incessant and lucid appeal to remember what went before.
We remember—where we have been, what we have been delivered from and what pinched and smoothed us into what we are now.
We do this; we do all of this, like Christ mandates, in remembrance.
I keep a book on my nightstand, tucked somewhere securely and tightly in the back—probably a little dusty, certainly a little worn, most of the time forgotten. It is a journal … sort of. It is more an ongoing letter, a correspondence between my husband and me. He sleeps next to me on the other side of the bed, inches away, so our book isn’t for the purpose of spanning the distance. It is for the sake of securing our souls; it is for the purpose of sealing tightly the tie that binds. So I keep this book close by.
I keep it to help me remember—to help us remember—what makes us … us.
It is a record of our moments—our story, its fairytale-like quality, the romance, the love, the dreams and hopes for our union. He started it nearly two years ago as an aid for his proposal, asking for my hand, hoping for the world, giving his heart.
I wrote back that night, revealing a lifetime spent imagining this moment, brought to fruition on one of the most faultless and perfect days. I asked for the world, I hoped for his hand and I accepted his heart, giving mine to him.
That was where the book started, the opening pages a preamble to our declaration of love. The pages that follow are our accounts of the marked significant moments. Our wedding day, our first days away from one another, our anniversary, the purchase of our first home together. Written not for the sake of communicating, but for the sake of remembering.
So this book, the one that I keep tucked in the back of my nightstand, is like a trigger. It is the way we recount the story, the noteworthy spans; it is our way of recalling what has been, of anticipating what can be and of taking pause in what is.
We read our book and we write in our book not because we think we will forget the day we got engaged or the day we got married—not because if we didn’t write it down, those days would be lost to us. We write because we are in danger of forgetting the significance—because sometimes in the mundane monotony of life, we overlook the soulfulness of our story, the lifeblood of our story. Writing it down enables us to remember.
There is another book in my nightstand. It is also a book of moments and of accounts, written by a God passionate about stories, passionate about recalling the substance that makes up our history with Him. It is a book of letters, from God to us, from us to God, and the messiness in the romance and the delicate beauty of pain. And we read this book, not because we will forget the narrative between the covers, but because in reading and rereading, we are marking its essence with value. Remembering what took place between the thin pages of my Bible reminds me where I came from, where I fit in the grand story and where this fervent account is headed. I remember, because somehow, wonderfully, mysteriously, I am a part of its telling.
I believe my God is a God who cares about remembering, who diligently and intentionally established His people as ones saturated in the discipline of recollecting. God remembered, still remembers His people. He remembered, still remembers His covenants. And with each significant moment, each defining event, there was time to commemorate. Feasts, fasting and festivals—all founded to dispel forgetfulness.
“I will not forget,” God assures. “Remember well,” He instructs.
And I don’t think His instruction was offered for practical purposes—because He feared a mental block where we would literally forget Him. I believe His encouragement, His plea to us is one made for our own sakes. Remember, because you will be tempted to live habitually without making the time to halt, to recall, what the big moments felt like.
And the big moments—they are your soulfulness. They are your lifeblood. You need them. Life is hinged on them. This story can’t go where it needs to go unless you remember where it has been.
We break bread, we share wine—and we do so in remembrance, in effort to evoke our spirits to wakefulness. We do so communally, we do so individually—and all the while we are branding on our souls the worth found in remembering.
There are two books in my nightstand. Both are precious. Both contain the spirit of my soul. Both spur me toward greatly anticipated tomorrows, and both equally incite me to take the time to look back. The story is bigger than right now. Much of the story is found in ceremoniously pausing to remember. Slow down. Remember. Stand still. Remember. Wait. And remember.
Otherwise, I’ll miss it. I’ll lose my place. I will overlook my history, and I will be tempted to forget. And I can’t forget. Too much is at stake, the journey with my husband, the romance with my God. As strong, as pure and as necessary as the pull is toward what awaits the next day, the next page, there is the incessant and lucid appeal to remember what went before.
We remember—where we have been, what we have been delivered from and what pinched and smoothed us into what we are now.
We do this; we do all of this, like Christ mandates, in remembrance.
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