The Anti-Depressant

Often people tell me that they cannot believe the things that I remember, and because I remember, write about them. If you don't know what they mean, check out my previous post about being a third grader mimicing the behavior of the older boys. My answer is always that I see such memories as a gift from God. For some reason or other I am able to reach back and recall insignificant events from my life and then use them to do one of the things that brings great joy to my life, put words on paper.
Of course, these memories are tempered by the fact that I have watched my children grow and revise their histories. Events that Brenda and I recall quite clearly are often distorted beyond recognition in the memories our children carry. I am quite certain my memories are no different, they are recollections totally shaped by who and what I am today. I make no claim to my memories being perfect or even very accurate. They are simply my memories.
However in that process I suspect there is a God given blessing working as an anti-depressant. I choose the memories that I will allow to shape my life today and bring joy to me and manage to not focus on those that are harmful and bring pain. In my talks and visits with people who struggle with the darkness of depression they seem to be unable to be so selective. Perhaps that is even the core of their illness. Often in fact, they do exactly the reverse, focusing only on the things in their past that are hurtful and drag them down.
I began to think about all this over the weekend as I prepared for our worship service. Part of that process involved watching a video of an interview with a member I had conducted. I was shocked to see the spitting image of my father staring back at me from the screen! I must admit that image was not pleasant for me. Not that I am not proud of my Dad and all his accomplishments, but I had never realized so potently how much I look like him.
Pondering that resemblence, I suddenly discovered that I could not say with any certainty whether he died on March 9th or 10th. A major event in my life and there was no way I could be certain of the right date. I began to wonder what is wrong with me. (don't worry the correct date came to me soon enough.)
Why can I remember what it felt like to make a speech in class in the 10th grade and not remember the date my father died?
I think part of that answer may be that the speech in the 10th grade was the first time I experienced the joy of standing in front of people and seeing them react to words I was speaking. A joy that has stayed with me all my life, whether in the classroom teaching or on the stage preaching. My father's death, on the other hand, really has not shaped my life in any significant way. My Dad's life had an enormous impact on my me and shapes me still today, but his death merely brought some days of darkness that God blessed me with the strength to endure.
You see, I am blessed to be able to choose to remember the events that have positively shaped my life and shuffle aside other more painful ones.
I know that I will never escape the horror of the day that Tara died, but that day is not how I remember her. I clearly and quickly call up images of the race through the night from my parents home in Pine Bluff to Arkadelphia and the hospital on the day she was born. I laugh at how terrified Brenda was that something was wrong with Tara because she was so doped up following the birth that she couldn't see Tara until the next day. I see a basketball goal and instantly am transported back to the precious hours spent at the gym or on the outside court at church rebounding the ball for her. I never forget the emotion of the longest walk on earth for any father, the trek down the aisle in the church to give her away in marriage.
All of those, and many many more, are joyful memories that still tug at my heart. I thank God that for some reason they are the memories that haunt me, instead of the the painful ones of her loss.
For some reason, when I begin to feel blue and darkness closes in on me, I am able to look inside my memories and find some minor event and write about it. In the process I experience that same joy I found in speech class. I write and know that somewhere, someone will read and share a piece of my life and be moved, to laughter or to tears, it really doesn't matter which. In that process the sun breaks through the darkness and my spirit is revived.
I invite you today to look at your memories, but look selectively. If what you recall is painful, put it aside and search for other places in the recesses of that wonderful organ we call the brain and find joy. I promise you it is there. Often we have just gotten so comfortable with the darkness we are afraid to let the sun in. Ask God today to bless you with joyful rememberances.
Now how is that for a justification for how wierd I am with my selective memory??? Sometimes I even amaze myself.
God's best,
Bill