I went home to clean up and eat after spending two and a half days at my mother Elaine’s bedside as she journeyed closer to death. My family encouraged me to take a break. I remember eating a small plate of pasta with a single enormous meatball that a friend had made and delivered as a gesture of support. Shortly after washing my face, I received a call that my mom was suddenly moments away from her last breath. I couldn’t bear the thought of not being with her and began to run to the hospital, praying, “Please, let me make it. Please, let me make it.” 

It was a holiday Monday, and customary fireworks erupted in the sky ahead of me, feeling as if they were meant for my mom. Breathless, I nearly collapsed as I entered the room, rejoining the circle and tenderly taking my mom’s hand. Within minutes, she passed away.

To ensure I wouldn’t forget, I wrote down my experience of that final weekend with her while planning her funeral. Inspired by those in Scripture who laid down stones to mark significant places and divine experiences, I committed my memories to paper. The more I wrote, the more recollections surfaced. Remembering became an act of honoring both my mom’s life and her sacred end.

For me, remembering isn’t about sifting out the good from the bad; the difficult moments deserve acknowledgment too. To place someone on a pedestal denies the complexity of life. My mom’s life was a blend of sorrow and joy, loss and abundance, and to ignore those contrasts feels disingenuous. It’s not just important that we remember; how we remember matters just as much.

Consider how often history is written by those who believe they’ve won it—the “victors.” This perspective privileges the powerful while marginalizing or even erasing those without a voice. The challenge for us all is that what we remember is subject to interpretation. Memory does not grant us access to all the raw facts of the past; even the facts we recall are shaped by our interpretations. What we remember holds significance for our identities, whether positive or negative.

This is why the collective dimension of memory is essential in a theology of remembering. When we remember together, we connect to past events in meaningful ways. In the case of my mother, I needed to gather with others who grieved her too. Together, we remembered and learned things about Elaine that we might not have otherwise known. Participating in rituals like funerals or communion links communities to past events while fostering meaningful narratives. I believe that remembering the past helps us understand how we relate and engage in the present. My mom’s life taught me about patience and grace—lessons that continue to influence me, and that I never want to forget.

Post Script: I was recently invited to reflect on a theology of remembering and share about it at a gathering called the Dead Heretics Society. I was moved by all of the presentations and the conversation that ensued. With thanks to Carl Amouzou and his team for creating space for, as they describe it, more nuanced, marginal, or grassroots
perspectives on theology, culture, and philosophy.