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    I moved from the group of women visiting together in Elvira’s kitchen, wandered into the living room, and sat down on the sofa. As I admired the delicate workmanship of the small, antique coffee table in front of me, I noticed a half-open child’s book, perched between the table legs. It looked as if it had been carelessly tossed there by the owner and temporarily forgotten. Its covers were worn, but the pictures and lettering were still bright and cheery.

    I might have reached to rescue it if a voice behind me hadn’t asked at that moment, “Do you know the story of that little book?” Surprised, I turned to see a pleasant looking woman about my age standing behind me, her hands lightly resting on the back of the couch. I shook my head, and as I did so, she came around to sit beside me. Gesturing toward the book, she explained, “Elvira keeps it there, exactly as her only son left it one day, as a comforting reminder of him. You see, he was killed in an accident many years ago.”

    The simple narrative moved me, and I looked back at the still life of table and book with a new awareness of my hostess. It might have been a morbid story if it had been anyone’s story except Elvira’s. This lady was no recluse, hiding away behind darkened windows, living only in the past. Bubbly, vivacious, loving, and serving were all terms that described her. She loved company, she helped to make hospital favors for the church, she directed weddings and receptions (including some catering), she worked full-time, and she still had plenty of herself to give to several nephews and a niece who lived nearby. Yes, she had suffered grief and loss (she was also a widow) — her past held intense emotional pain. Yet, she was not bitter or full of self-pity. Why?

    In reflecting from time to time on that evening, I’ve concluded that there are two ways in which we can allow memories to affect us: (1) they can drive us into apathy, constant melancholy, and cynicism, or (2) they can inspire appreciation and praise for God’s deliverance and love.

Her memories were colored with thanksgiving to her God.

    Elvira’s memories were colored with thanksgiving to her God, evidenced by the love overflowing from her heart. Yes, she was wounded terribly when her son and then her husband died; anyone would have been. Some memories bring tears and pain. That doesn’t mean we’re handling them in the wrong way. Especially in the case of death, a void is sometimes left that can never be filled. We miss them! We are not weak because we don’t understand why. Remember that Jesus wept (John 11:35), and Jesus asked “Why?” (Matt. 27:46). We identify with his human nature.

    Even though all such responses are part of our humanity and are not condemned, they can be destructive if they spring from a bitterness of the soul. When that is the case, then our thoughts of the past become part of a vicious cycle — we wrestle with grief because we refuse to accept what has happened, the non-acceptance creates more questions, the questions spawn more doubts, the doubts mature into skepticism, which moves us farther away from God. When this happens, that wonderful ability of our minds to recall past events becomes an avenue by which the devil drags us into unbelieving hopelessness. But, this need not happen to anyone!

    Like Elvira, we can grow sweeter. Like her, we can overcome the obstacles that prevent complete trust in the Savior. Elvira’s power to overcome her painful past lay in her ultimate submission to and trust in God’s will. We, too, may claim that triumph! It is the triumph of one who chooses to thank God for scores of blessings already given, for the myriad of prayers already answered, and for the countless times He has turned evil into good on our behalf. It is the triumph of one who refuses to charge God with cruel and unfair treatment and of one who recognizes that the Savior is not the one who stalks about seeking whom he may devour.

    Our remembrances can then be like beautiful, sparkling gems that delight our souls and enhance our lives. It’s up to us! As the old hymn says it,

Precious memories, how they linger,
How they ever flood my soul,
In the stillness of the midnight,
Precious, sacred scenes unfold.