Ruminations

Today’s post isn’t as much of a devotion as it is a rumination. Every April, I can’t help but think about my great-grandmother who passed away in 2014. I know the saying is that “time heals all things,” and that’s true, in one sense, but not true in others. I still sometimes cry to myself or find myself clinging to the memories of her to keep them alive. I still laugh sometimes when I think of them, but there always comes a point when I realize: how much more happened in her life that I don’t know?

Obviously, a lot. She lived a good many decades longer than me, and I only knew her for the last 19 years of her life. And the first 7 of mine can’t count completely, since I can hardly remember them myself besides little flashes here and there.

But that doesn’t mean that I don’t want to know.

And now, unfortunately, I can’t know.

I can’t get the answer to any more of my questions—what was it like when she was growing up? What were some of her favorite memories? What were her dreams?—and there’s a good chunk of history that I never learned. I wish I would have thought of these questions sooner. But sometimes we truly don’t know what we have until it’s gone—and sometimes, we just simply don’t know what to say or ask until the opportunities are gone.

Which is why I dearly love the song Marjorie by Taylor Swift. It’s made up of snippets that Taylor’s own grandmother left behind for her, but not only that—it’s filled with the sense of longing of “I want to know more.” The lyrics that are especially poignant to me are these: “I should’ve asked you questions/I should’ve asked you how to be/Asked you to write it down for me/Should’ve kept every grocery store receipt/‘Cause every scrap of you would be taken from me/Watched as you signed your name Marjorie/All your closets of backlogged dreams/And how you left them all to me.”

The truth is, no matter how much time we get with the people we love...it will never feel like enough. It will never be enough. Perhaps it’s just me, but I can’t imagine anyone reaching death and thinking, “this is enough.” They may think they’ve had a good life or be grateful for the memories that they’ve made, but I find it very hard to believe that they would say, “I don’t want any more time with you.”

Because I know I do. I want to know more about the people I love. I want to know everything about them. I don’t want to be left with the “I should have done this” like Taylor sings. Yes, I know the people in my life as I’ve experienced time with them. I have my own memories—but there are so many things I don’t know. So many things I crave to know. And it needs to be tangible, something I will not forget. Something I can revisit when all the scraps are taken from me—something I will always have.

Something I can pass down, too.

Which is why I’ve started the process of nagging asking my own grandparents to write down things for me. (And, yes, if you’re reading this, let it be known that this is another subtle way of nudging you to write your life story for me. Please? Thank you?) There are so many things, again, that I want to know. Questions I want to know. Advice I want to be given. I just want to know them—I just want to know you. Your thoughts, your feelings, your life, your hopes, your dreams, your failures. The hard parts, the good parts; everything in your journey so far. What you’ve learned.

And you, the generations that came before me...the generations that came before us...don’t let your story die, either. Even if you can’t remember it all—write what you can. Write the people you knew. Write the person you were and are. Give us the life lessons you learned. Teach us how to be. Answer the questions we haven’t thought to ask yet.

We appreciate it.

We need it.

Because we really don’t want every single scrap of you to be taken from us. We want everything. The voice mails. The letters. The laughter. The pictures.

We want you.

Please.

Preserve you, because one day, we’ll need it.