Reaching into the treasury of our memories

Each November we fill a basket of names of people we’ve known who have passed away. Every year, sadly, it seems to be easier to fill the basket. Still, I always try to leave a few slips of paper blank in case someone dies after November begins. We always have someone to add.

Already this year I’ve used one of those blank slips for Jacqueline, a lovely young wife and mother of two who passed away last week of brain cancer.

At dinner each night we pray for our daily intention, and then we share stories about the person we’re praying for. The stories are my favorite part, as we reminisce and think of anecdotes our children will be able to relate to.

I tell them about Mr. Chou, the father of friends I knew when I was a child. I explain that his family had the first VCR in the neighborhood (“What’s a VCR, Mom?”) and how he would light up with a huge smile when I walked into his video store.

John and I talk about our friend Father Tom, a Franciscan priest who understood how to work and how to relax, exploring the inside of his eyelids from the wraparound porch at his monastery. He was a man who lived life with joy and peace and love.

I remind them about my cousin Paula, who always opened her home to us and gave our two excited boys a giant stuffed Pikachu to take home.

Together we remember Aunt Robin and Uncle Eric and Georgie, people we have known and said goodbye to as a family.

It’s sad to lose people you love, but the stories make me smile. Sometimes as I’m telling a story, I remember a detail I had long forgotten, and a memory comes flooding back. Everyone we love becomes part of us in a special way, and sharing these stories with one another feels like a beautiful gift—especially during this month when we remember souls.

The other day I was watching a Mass celebrated by Father Tom Roach, S.J., and he was speaking about souls and how we remember people.

“November is the time to reach into the treasury of our memories,” he said.

The treasury of our memories. I love the richness of that phrase, the sense that people touch our lives with meaning and poignancy and permanence that we can draw from for years and years and years.

I’m always sad to lose someone I love. But part of the reason I write about them and tell our children about them is to keep their memories alive. By thinking of them and speaking about what made them such a gift to me, I can honor and celebrate them—and feel grateful to have known them.

As we continue to remember souls this November, I hope you too can reach into the treasury of your memories and find a reason to smile.

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