Sometimes the memories are impossible to recreate because the ones who made them happen have died. I suppose it should bring me a great degree of comfort to have loved and been loved so well and deeply that the passing of those close to me - even many years later - brings a twinge of pain. I have experienced loss as a child, a teenager, and an adult, and was even privileged to feel the last heart beat under my hand of someone whom I dearly adored. But, the ceasing of that heart, like the ceasing of all the others, signaled the end of life and all the experiences we had shared together. That is sobering, yet it makes the memories all the more precious.
Sometimes the happy memories that drop into my conscience and then slip away again are impossible to recreate because of choices or circumstances of the others who were involved. People move. They change. They get healthy or regress into sickness. They draw closer or retreat from relationships. Their tastes and habits evolve (or maybe digress!). Some of these are positive on the whole, and the net benefits overshadow the loss of activities we used to enjoy together. I am thrilled for the people whose lives are moving in a positive direction. Some changes or circumstances, however, are not positive, which only adds to the heaviness of the loss of our shared endeavors. It is, in a way, even more sad than a death to know the shadow of possibility or engagement still exists, but not its fulfillment.
And then, of course, there is the loss of things that I have loved that is solely and completely of my own creation. This one hurts the most, because I know it is a deprivation I am inflicting on myself and others. The vast majority of these losses are because of our decision to move to Guatemala. Every holiday I miss, milestone I'm not there for, family health issue I can't help with causes a flood of... of... of something I'm not sure how to name. It isn't doubt exactly, because we believe so strongly in our call to be here. It isn't regret, or uncertainty, or even something as simple as sadness, but a strange amalgam. It is a heavy feeling, and easy to get wrapped up in but hard to wear.
Truth be told, though, the losses are hardly ever the simple result of one person's death or decision - neither someone else's nor my own. That helps with the unburdening a bit. Even if we hadn't made the ridiculous choice to move to a far-flung locale, many (most, if I'm honest) of my treasured memories would still be just that. And, if I'm being totally honest, the treasured memories might not have been totally and completely treasured experiences when I was in the midst of them. Time does have a way of fuzzing things up.
I'm banking on that - the sort of felting of the strands of life that makes things tangled but cozy upon retrospection. It is what causes my memories to be so brief, fleeting, and transient. But, it's also what causes the hard edges that make life rough, like pebbles tossed in the surf, to get smoothed and softened over time; the intensity of life's problems, like the power of mighty waves, to fade over time; the ugly pits and chasms of day-to-day self doubt, like footprints on the beach, to fade over time. It allows growth and regression - for ourselves and others - to happen without entirely blotting out the memory of what came before. That is a comfort to me because I know the people who are gone or different will never fully be gone or different to me as long as the impressions and memories remain. It also means that our decision to be here has moved us, but not fully removed us from the hearts and minds of our loved ones, either. I like that.
(For what it's worth - it's not just nearing 40 or being on the mission field that has caused me to suddenly be introspective about such things. As I was nearing 30, I did the same thing, even blogging about my impressions and musings then, too.)
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