Most days of our lives slip by, never to be remembered again. Nothing significant occurs; nothing stands out. Another ordinary day erased.
But some days are etched with an iron stylus.
July 8, 2005, began as an ordinary day. My dad, mom, and two sisters started a 600-mile drive across Texas to help my wife and me move. I had just completed my first year of medical school and looked forward to their arrival. We watched and waited. The hours ticked by as anticipation eventually melted into nervousness, then anxious speculation, then dread.
My family never arrived. That night, the 911 dispatcher confirmed our worst fear: they had all died.
Reeling at Remembrance
Weeping, I picked up my Bible and turned to the first passage that came to mind: “Whom have I in heaven but you? And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever” (Ps. 73:25–26).
The ordinary day was etched in tears, never to be erased.
The following weeks were filled with memorials, sorting a house, and selling a house. Grace infused these moments with friendships both old and new. Most of the car’s contents were destroyed by oil, but out of the wreckage God preserved all four Bibles and journals. The pages of his Word, prayer, and the presence of people carried me through the tempest.
During the twists and turns of that year, a weight of memory emerged that pressed down on me—a desire to remember and to be remembered.
During the twists and turns of that year, a weight of memory emerged that pressed down on me—a desire to remember and to be remembered. When my family died, I scrambled to write down anything I could remember about them: mannerisms, expressions, likes, dislikes. I wanted to hold on to these memories, but I quickly realized my limitations. I forgot. Others also forgot. I was sobered by the realization that the next generation (my children) wouldn’t remember my family because they never knew them. As Solomon warned, “There is no remembrance of former things, nor will there be any remembrance of later things yet to be among those who come after” (Eccles. 1:11).
There are various responses to the weight of memory. In an effort to be remembered beyond the grave, my deceptive heart chose the path of heroism. I desired to prolong my earthly memory by doing great things for God. Heroism seeks immortality on earth through others, who will tell your story when you can no longer tell it yourself. Though it seems biblical on the surface, the underlying motivation is often for self.
Heroism emphasizes man’s need to perform and find purpose in accomplishments. Instead of freedom in purpose, heroism produces fear. Haunting questions arise. What if I haven’t done enough? What if I fail? What if others forget? Death—the end of the earthly existence of self—brings such fears to the forefront.
Resting in the Redeemer
God’s memory, however, is perfect. He sees all and knows all (Ps. 139:1–12). He has no end, and his remembrance never ceases (Ps. 90:2). As our Creator, he “remembers that we are dust” (Ps. 103:14); indeed, “the steadfast love of the LORD is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear him” (Ps. 103:17).
By his mercy, God made a way to redeem corrupted man—and his memory. He sent his Son to live a perfect life and die to pardon sin. On the cross, a transaction of memory took place. All our sin was remembered and nailed to the tree; Christ was forsaken and “forgotten” by the Father. But through trusting him, God no longer remembers our sin (Jer. 31:34). And how do we know this is true? Because of history’s greatest act of remembrance: the resurrection. Jesus didn’t remain forsaken in the tomb—the Father “remembered” and raised him from the dead. Through pardon for sin, Christ’s resurrection replaces the fear of death with the hope of endless life.
On the cross, a transaction of memory took place.
If you are a Christian who fears death and its whispers of insignificance, find comfort in these words: “[The righteous] will be remembered forever. He is not afraid of bad news; his heart is firm, trusting in the LORD” (Ps. 112:6–7). God will never leave you, in life or in death. Nothing—not even your own funeral—can separate you from the love of God (Rom. 8:38–39).
By God’s grace, the weight of heroism can be replaced by the worship of the Savior. Your name is etched in the Lamb’s book of life, never to be erased.
The Gospel Coalition