I had a conversation the other day with one of the men in our church about memory. It seems as we get older our memory grows fuzzy. This was brought about by the fact that I couldn’t remember who had told me something just a few days before. Of course, that happens all through our lives. But as we age it happens with more frequency. We cover it up by saying it is a ‘senior moment’ and chuckling a little, but it is distracting. Fortunately, it doesn’t happen to me often, at least not that I can remember. (Yes, that is a joke.)

          But there is another side of that coin. There are some things we would rather forget. They could be things we have done or things we have seen or maybe something we read. The phrase is somewhat popular now; “AGH! I can’t unsee that!” There are just things we wish we could forget.

          For me, if it was something that caught my full attention, it is there in my mind. (Not so much recent things. If the mind is like a computer, then mine is having trouble downloading.) I remember whole conversations. I remember what the weather was on certain days. I remember emotions and what I was thinking. There are some very good things about a good memory. We farmed until I was a freshman in high school, then the farm went under. Now, out here in farm country, Marsha can ask me any question about what she sees going on and I can answer her. Brothers and sisters, it has been a long time since I was a freshman and I have done a lot of things since, but it comes right back.

          But there is a downside, too. 1988, October. I was pastoring a church in Warren, Ohio. One of our ladies, Nancy, called in a panic. Her little girl, Shelly, was dying. She wanted me to come and baptize her before she died. The thing was, the child had been born a number of years before. She should have been in third grade. But she was born with a disability. She never grew much past babyhood. Her mind, as far as anyone knew, never advanced. As she grew older, her body stiffened some. She wasn’t in pain, it seemed, and she always had a bright and clear smile for you. It was sad, but on those occasions when I went to see her she always lifted my spirits. Eventually, her parents had to place her in an institution. The facility they chose was the Haddie Larlham Foundation in Northeast Ohio. This was, and still is, an awesome place, dedicated to the care and comfort of children with special needs. After I had gone out to see this little girl, the lady who ran the Larlham facility asked me if I could spend some time with other children, as well. So, in spite of the fact that it was a long drive, I was there at least three times a month. I saw other kids and spoke with their parents, but my favorite was this little girl with the big smile.

          On this particular day, her mother was hysterical. This had happened before. She had taken a job out that way so she could go and spent her lunch hour with her daughter. Mom was very emotional and whenever the little one was in any kind of distress she would freak out. She would call her husband first then call me. The girl was dying. By the time we got there she would be fine and Mom would be embarrassed, but she was momma. Brad, the Dad, was getting more and more irritated with this and he and Nancy would fight over it. It was getting old to me, too, but I kept that to myself. Nancy was not fooling around when she would call. She was just scared.

          However, she had asked me to come and baptize the child. That was different. Nancy had grown up a Catholic and left that faith when she got married. She did not believe for a second that a child’s baptism secured their salvation. But in her fear on this day, she reverted to her earlier beliefs. When I jumped into the cart to go, I was much more worried about Mom than daughter.

          I got there and entered a back door that I had access to. I hurriedly walked to the room, wondering what state I would find Nancy in. I was still well down the hall when I began to hear Nancy crying uncontrollably. When I walked in, Nancy was holding Shelly, the little one, and was pacing. Two workers were standing helplessly to one side. Nancy would not give her little on up. When I walked in Nancy looked up, rushed up to me and, without a word, handed Shelly to me. I took her and looked into her face. She looked back at me, eyes wide, took a deep breath, and died in my arms.

          Nothing had ever prepared me for something like this. I can’t tell you how I knew she had died rather than passed out. I just did. I looked up at Nancy, and she knew, too. She dropped straight to the floor. I looked back down into the face of the little one, and handed her to a worker. Then I sat down in the floor with Nancy and held her for a long while. Strictly speaking, that was probably not the right thing to do, but, as I say, this was never covered during my educational years.

          From a personal point of view, I would like to forget that day. But it is there and, I suppose, and will always be there. However, there is a positive.

          I think of Nancy and Shelly and Brad (this was the one time he didn’t come when summoned) and I am reminded just how precious life is, in reality. The politicians and others will take an event like the killings in Las Vegas and make it about their agenda. The world of medicine will take an unwanted pregnancy and turn it into profit. The military talks about ‘acceptable losses’ when they talk battlefield casualties. A person might go through many injuries and surgeries and diseases and emerge triumphant, and then be taken down by an infection. Life is fragile and transitory. More than we realize.

          The leaves in Northeast Ohio are an incredible show in October. Here, in this part of Indiana, the leaves fade and fall, but the woods in Ohio are made up with lots and lots of maples. The colors are bright and breath taking. Come over one hill, and you are awed. Go over the next hill and it is more amazing. So it was on that October day in 1988. All the way to Haddie Larlham I was treated to a show. I enjoyed it. I didn’t realize that I was going to be holding someone as they died that day. As I walked to the car later the leaves were still incredible. But I didn’t see them then. A sweet, precious little life had just ended. If anything, the changing leaves just reminded me that winter was on the way.

          Death is a part of life, but that doesn’t mean we grow hard. Each death takes someone away who was precious to someone. The pain is as real as if someone was actually injured.

          But death is also a part of everlasting life. I have no doubt that one day I will be walking down a golden street in Heaven and a young lady will walk up to me and say something like, “Well, I held on till you came that October day. I knew Mom needed you.” And I’ll get the hug she couldn’t give in life, except when she smiled. I know I will see another young lady who I will recognize as Sally, my beloved grandmother. She’ll be happy to see me and will walk with me for a while. And I will see so many others who were dear in life and who are now dear in memory. For the believer, death is not to feared. It is a door.

          Our time here is short. Make the best of it. Life here is so dear. In the afterlife, for those who have accepted Christ as Savior, it is dearer still. Never take it for granted.

Blessings.