on the gift of persistent memories
/This week I offer a personal reflection for Memorial Day. To hear Brandi read this week’s essay, click here: https://youtu.be/bt6G01qFYBo
Memories can be brutal and beautiful, bringing waves of grief or gratitude. Those waves often exhaust us, but at times they also sustain us, in miraculous ways. As Marvel’s Vision reminds us, grief is love persevering. Remembering is eternity breaking through our mortality.
As Memorial Day approaches, as graduations come and families gather, take time to remember together. Indulge your memories. Tell the stories. Catch a glimpse of eternity.
This week begins our third year without Judah Finn Thacker. His dying leaves a crater in our past—in our selves—that time doesn’t seem to fill. Many of us don’t know how to live without him because we don’t want to live with his loss. His death cracked all the foundations I depend on: That God is good. That kids grow up. That parents can protect. That sibling love will continue into adulthood. That everything works out. That childhood is magical. That hope is always present.
My personal pain has diffused a bit, and there are plenty of moments of massive joy. Some things don’t get better. The intensity of grief still takes my breath away, buckling my knees at times. I find one of my kids devastated on the ground every now and then. I see the way my kids don’t trust the universe anymore. I don’t know how to claim the promises of God a lot of days. My tears nearly always loom. It is too much to bear.
And yet. Here we are, 730 days later. We are still making dinner and playing sports and swimming and laughing. We are still having birthdays and growing up and older. Today, as I think about Judah and choke back such brutal sadness, I want to elevate a fraction of the way that he still lives in me. I share these memories in hopes that they remind you of the many, many ways the one you miss is still all around you.
He is gone. And he is not. And that is lovely and real. And I am thankful.
I think of Judah when I walk through my house, because he had favorite spots that are still his here.
I think of Judah when a person surprises me with random deep knowledge that intrigues and delights.
I think of Judah when I see his brother sitting, legs folded like a stack of books, lost in his imagination (or ipad J).
I think of Judah when I hear a bey blade rip, Star Wars or anything in the Mario world.
I think of Judah when I see my beautiful 12 year old son.
I think of Judah when I glimpse a dinosaur, a pokemon or a light saber.
I think of Judah when I see a dog doting on her owner, always wanting to sit nearby.
I think of Judah when I hear his sister humming to herself, utterly satisfied with her own thoughts.
I think of Judah when I see a Happy Meal, or Chick-fil-A.
I think of Judah when I notice a person consider someone else before they name their own needs.
I think of Judah when I see the kindness and empathy buried deep in my 15 year old son.
I think of Judah when I see a person cheer another person on, sharing in the excitement of the game even in watching.
I think of Judah when I notice my 17 year old scanning the room, taking the emotional temperature before he decides who to be in that moment.
I think of Judah when I see a little kid have a very grown up reaction to another kid.
I think of Judah when I notice someone really thinking before they answer a question.
I think of Judah when I hear my daughter say a new word I didn’t think she could understand or pronounce.
I think of Judah when I share an inside joke, connecting me to a memory with a person I love.
I think of Judah when I hear a cackling, bubbling laugh.
I think of Judah when I watch someone do something very brave.
He is gone. And he is not. And that is lovely and real. And I am thankful.
May your Memorial Day be full of pauses, of memories, of eternal moments. Speak them aloud. Share them with others. Expand your community across time and space, and welcome the brutal, beautiful memories that continue to shape you. Happy Memorial Day.
