Remember

There's a holy repetition in remembering. Lately, the word has been trailing me like a persistent whisper, showing up in sacred conversations, text messages with friends, and even in the cadence of Sunday morning sermons. When a theme begins to repeat itself with such insistence, I've learned to listen.

Remembering is never just about recollection. It's about knowing. Not the intellectual knowing that sits primly in our heads, but the deep, embodied knowing that resides in our bones—the kind of knowing that sometimes slips away and requires gentle, persistent retrieval.

I think about a recent conversation with my Spiritual Director, where I found myself circling the all too familiar territories of my inner landscape. How many of us have been there? Repeating the same conversations, wrestling with the same spiritual struggles, feeling perhaps a twinge of frustration that we haven't "moved on" or "gotten over" something.

But what if this repetition is not a failure, but a grace?

What if God's patience is not about getting it right the first time, but about the tender, relentless love that continues to remind us of profound truths we've momentarily forgotten? Grace isn't a one-time event but a continuous unfolding, a patient re-membering—quite literally, putting back together the pieces of ourselves that we've allowed to scatter.

In my own spiritual journey, I've discovered that forgetting and remembering are not opposites, but dance partners. We forget. We remember. We forget again. And each time, there is an invitation to receive grace—not as a stern correction, but as a gentle, loving reminder.

So when we find ourselves in those moments of apparent spiritual repetition, perhaps we can whisper to ourselves: This too is grace. This continuous, patient reminding is evidence of a God who does not grow weary of our human fragility, who understands that transformation is not instant, but incremental.

Remember. Always remember. And when you forget—remember again.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​