I just came in from my morning walk.
My devotions led me to this.
Woeful, defined by my trusty old Webster’s, means “lamentably bad.”
My memory is woeful.
It wasn’t always this porous but it certainly is now.
I suppose it is partially a product of age.
The effects of a failing memory can be moderated with a few gimmicks, or so I hear.
Some folks take pills.
Some folks do crossword puzzles. (This is a complicating layer to the issue because I also once could spell.)
Some folks set alarms on their smart phones which are quickly becoming the repository of all memories.
I misplace my smart phone with alarming regularity.
Complicating all this is the fact that I was never trained, called, or inclined to do ministry in a lamentably bad environment.
I look in the mirror and just sigh and say “you, sir, are woeful.”
I find myself retreating into the memories that are sharp and that make me joyful.
I turn my back on the lamentably bad and deliriously devour the ecstaticly euphoric.
The Cutie said “I do” and she made a promise and she kept it overcoming all that is lamentable.
I see clearly, and feel deeply, when the children arrived and grew and played in the sun and wind while I watched and relaxed over something precious I’d been a part of creating.
I remember the first grandchild, who we feared would never walk, took his first step and then kept on walking fearlessly into a life that has blessed me beyond the ability of my trusty old Webster’s to articulate.
I remember I preached at my Grandmother’s funeral and when I lifted my Mom from her chair.
It is a joyful thing as I look at you and remember the weddings and funerals and Baptisms and encouragement and kindnesses and smile.
I recall the gentle love that has cushioned the memories I’d rather not have had.
Woeful can be topped you see.
Best I remember.
As our Friend and I were walking along and trying to figure out what on earth it was that we’d just discussed he smiled at me and said…
“Store the memories that are joyful in the cloud.”