Memory as Both Gift and Grief

Have you ever tried to recall a story only to find the edges blurred, the details slipping away?

You can almost see the scene, almost hear the voices, but when you try to tell it, the words scatter like leaves in the wind. Memory is like that—part gift, part grief.

The Gift of Memory

Some of my memories arrive like sudden music and I smile. A certain song comes on the radio, and instantly I’m seventeen again, windows down in my dad’s Studebaker, my hair blowing in the wind.

Or the smell of bread baking takes me right back to Grandma’s kitchen, where love was received in warm slices of buttered end pieces.

There are other memories I carry with reverence: the first time I held a grandchild, the face of a beloved friend, the ordinary rituals that have become sacred in my journey.

These recollections stitch together my identity.

They remind me that even though years have passed, I am still the same person who once laughed until I cried, who once stumbled and got up again, who once dared something new.

I think of the day I met a hornpout face-to-face while I was swimming underwater.

That memory has lived inside me all these years, surfacing whenever I need to remind myself that I am only a small part of a mostly hidden creation.

Without it, I would have forgotten not only an event, but also something of who I am.

The Grief of Memory

But memory has its shadows. It grieves me when I forget what I meant to remember.

The birthday that slipped past. The conversation I intended to recall word for word but now can only summarize…or not.

The story I promised to pass along and somehow never did.

There is also the sorrow of watching others lose their memories.

A loved one whose mind grows fragile, who can no longer remember our name or the shared history that once bound us close.

It is a grief beyond words when someone we love forgets us—not by choice, but because the brain itself is slipping away.

I remember when my mother confused me with my sister and when I reminded her it was me she was talking to, she looked at me with confusion.

The ache of that forgetting was as sharp as any loss. It wasn’t just her memory that disappeared—it felt like a piece of me vanished with it.

What I Wish I’d Written Down

As I grow older, I find myself saying, “I wish I’d written that down.”

Not because I need to create a perfect record of life, but because the small things matter—the funny phrases children invent, the way the light fell through a kitchen window, the laugh of a friend who is now gone.

Today I carry a small notebook wherever I go and write down things I see, or hear or think about that I will want to remember later.

It is tempting to think we’ll always remember. But memory doesn’t always keep what we want it to.

I have lost stories because I thought I’d “get to them later.” Later came, but the details were gone.

I think of my grandfather’s death decades ago. There was something about that event that was significant at the time, that I thought I would always remember.

But I didn’t. That missing piece has taught me something: memory is generous, but it is not endless.

Practices for Holding Memory

Here’s the good news: we can still choose to catch what matters. Not everything—no one can—but enough to build a trail of breadcrumbs for those who come after us.

Writing is one way. A journal, a notebook by the bed, even scraps of paper tucked into a drawer.

The form doesn’t matter—only that we capture what otherwise might vanish.

Letters are another. A short note to a child or grandchild, even just a line, becomes a keepsake years later.

I once saved a handwritten note from my father on yellow-lined paper from the early 1970s. That scrap of writing has outlasted photographs because it carries the voice of the one who wrote it.

And in this age of phones and recorders, our voices can be preserved, too. A quick story told into a recorder, a memory spoken out loud, becomes something future generations can hear with their own ears.

It doesn’t have to be perfect. Fragments are enough. A line or two about the day, the season, the blessing, or the ache. Over time, those fragments form a mosaic.

There is also a spiritual practice in remembering.

Writing down a gratitude each evening.

Naming blessings on the page.

Recording a story of faith or doubt, of fear and courage, of how the sacred showed up in ordinary life.

To write such things is to honor them. It is to say: this mattered, and it still does.

A Closing Reflection

Memory is not only about the past. It shapes how we live in the present. When I pause to write something down, I am not just preserving a detail—I am paying attention to life as it unfolds.

Perhaps that is why memory is both gift and grief. The gift reminds us we belong to a larger story. The grief reminds us to cherish what we have before it fades.

So I leave you with a question: what is one memory you could write down today, so it will not be lost tomorrow?

Maybe it is a story from your childhood, or something you saw just yesterday. Maybe it is a simple moment that feels unimportant now but will matter later. Write it down. Let it live outside your mind, where time cannot erase it.

Because someday, someone will be grateful you did.

Watch for future announcements of Inspiring Memories Journaling circle. We just ended our first 6 week session and look forward to another.

And be sure to get your copy of “Inspiring Memories”, a journal I created that gives you prompts for writing, designs for coloring, quotes and affirmations, and pages for capturing your memories.