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Stories are sacred. They
are scraps of fabric that, when woven together, construct our shared history.
The act of offering up a “remember when?” renders one vulnerable – for what was
once a moment to someone can transform into a story for someone else, carved
from the continous stream of our pasts and held dear to our hearts. Our
personal stories – unlike those we find upon the shelves at Barnes and Noble or
on the big screen – are less about plot and more about character. It’s easier
to remember that one time we hiked in Yosemite than it is to remember the
wonderment on my father’s face. But the more powerful stories translate the
intentions of the heart into the language of memory.
But I cannot ask my father
his thoughts on God after sleeping on the stars in California – whether he felt
peace or contentment; was he overwhelmed by the vastness or comforted by the
intimacy of the moment, just him among the sleeping sequoias? I cannot ask him.
A brain aneurysm took my father’s life and we live everyday without him in our
present. But in its own way, the brain aneurysm took away our past, as well. Details
that may not have felt significant at the time are now pivotal and we are no
longer privy to my father’s side of the story. He cannot fill in the details
for us.
And so we gather together,
here, and share our stories of David, refusing to allow the etchings of
memories to fade. Remember when dad befriend a homeless man in Fort Lauderdale
on our family vacation? The specifics of that trip have been forgotten, other
than the fact that Abby and I sang TLC’s “I dont want no scrub” out the
windows of our rented car ad nauseum. But I do remember feeling so proud of my
father, knowing that he was eating lunch with that man on the boardwalk,
instead of on the beach with us.
Dr. Reed’s Run is also a
celebration of your stories. For some of you, moments shared with David are
well-worn on your heart, etched from tellings and re-tellings. We honor you
this morning. For others, you have your own stories of struggle, survival, and
grief. We honor your stories this morning, too.
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