I Remember

This post is inspired by DJ, who reminded me how important it is to remember and encouraged me to write it down.

I remember that You called my name at that Randy Matthews concert on July 7, 1983. I remember how I wanted You, which is just another way of saying that You wanted me.

I remember that You spoke into my heart when my parents fought the custody battle that made me sick to my stomach. I remember the words of the Psalm that were written for me, that brought peace to a girl on her belly on blue shag carpet.

I remember Camp Wildwood in the eighth grade and learning how to praise You in a way I’d never experienced—it must be the way they praise You in heaven.

I remember scribbling “Jesus Rules” all over my folders in junior high, knowing I wasn’t cool enough for You, knowing You loved me anyway.

I remember our family falling apart. Again. I remember pleading with You for restoration. It didn’t turn out the way I thought it should, not the way I thought You thought it should. I remember crying, “Doesn’t God think we’ve had enough?”

I remember having the audacity to bargain with You: if You helped us get there on time—because we were terribly late and it was my fault—I’d have a 10-minute quiet time that night. Wow. I remember that You didn’t strike me dead. You got us there on time. Are You kidding me??

I remember going away to college and wondering if I would go to church on my own. I remember finding my brothers and sisters there and meeting You all over again. It was like we had just met, but better. I remember the giddiness of new relationship.

I remember YWAM, where I arrived as a believer and left as a disciple. I remember the bunny. You are unbelievable, You know that? Of course You do. I remember my faith being pulled deeper and wider and longer by You every day.

I remember leaving YWAM, on fire! ready to change the world for You. I remember failing and I remember You not being surprised.

I remember forgetting You. I don’t remember how You felt—only imagine it by things you say in the Bible when the Israelites played the harlot like me.

I remember having spiritual flashbacks interspersed with intentional lukewarmth. And still, You were faithful. Still, You were kind. Still, You were generous. I remember that still, You were interested in me. Still, You gently called me back again.

I remember the prayers You answered about Mike.

I remember the prayers You answered about my brother.

I remember the prayers You answered. Prayers that did not deserve Your attention. Prayers that were not consistent. Prayers lacking in faith. I remember Your favor and grace in the face of my selfishness and apathy.

I remember that You provided a safe place for me to confess all the ways that I had forgotten You—a safe place to be accountable for all that You were showing me. I remember the joy of stretching long-dormant limbs. I remember growing.

I remember digging in in Costa Rica. I remember the richness of fellowship found in the unlikeliest of places. I remember the pain of losing things that are only in our lives for a season. I remember that You did not leave me or forsake me.

I remember coming home without the feeling of coming home. I remember needing You so badly. I remember the comfort in Your promise that You were making me (no matter how slowly) more like Your Son.

I remember remembering You. I remember recognizing that You had not let anyone snatch me out of Your hand—not even myself.

I remember gratitude. . . and that, despite it all, I have a distressing tendency to forget.

Please don't let me.