While examining a bag of organic grapes at Whole Foods, I heard someone call my name.
The caller was a woman I hadn’t seen in years, a blast from the past. We and our families had attended the same church in the 1970s. Seeing her again made warm fuzzy memories of our prayer times together bubble to the surface.
I hugged her, and, with our embrace, memories of peace and joy poured into my ready heart. But it was the emotional part of our relationship that flooded me. Nothing of the actual doings of our time together presented itself except for the praying. Standing by the grapes, we didn’t spend much time reminiscing. Nor did we promise the usual cliché to get together again. It was enough just to remember, if only for a time, the buried-treasured memories we’d made together in our hearts long ago.
And isn’t that the best part of a memory? The heartfelt part? I have accumulated many wonderful memories over the years with loved ones and friends, but it’s how I felt when with them that is the memorable part. Like the faint glimpse of praying with my friend. I don’t remember what we prayed about. Only the fondness and love for her remains.
This gives me a better understanding of why Matthew exhorts us to lay up treasures in heaven where neither moth nor rust destroys. Unlike the memories of our possessions and things, we can take memories of God's joy and peace with us when we die. They are incorruptible and never end.
Paul thanked God when he remembered his friends at the church in Philippi. I, too, thank God upon every remembrance of my friend. These are the memories that pass the moth and rust test—the ones we take into eternity where we will be ushered into the presence of God, the great memory maker.
Take time to make memories that last.
(Photo courtesy of pixabay.)
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