The Weight of Memory

Fountains Abbey in August 2022

Conflicting emotions wash over me as I trot down the path. I'm about to see Fountains Abbey again for the first time in eight years. I love those glorious ruins- the abbeys of England and Scotland. I'm excited. The weather is perfect, and a flapjack (this one was filled with berry jam) is contentedly digesting. I have no obligations or time constraints on the horizon; I can wander at my leisure. This is going to be amazing.

I wander amongst the ruins. I had forgotten how much there was to explore here. I love this. This chamber is familiar; that one is not. Oooh, I remember this vantage point; a great photo spot. I ask two hikers to take my picture. We strike up a conversation, covering the typical topics. "You look like you're not from here." "That's true," I admit. "I grew up near York, but not the one in England." I explain the Pennsylvania counties of Lancaster and York, named for their English counterparts, and we enjoy the cultural tie. I hasten to add: "I did used to live here, too." And I'm reminded: This was once home. It no longer is. 

Visiting towns I once called home is bittersweet for me. Of course I love it- seeing familiar sights and enjoying favorite activities (and foods). Getting to experience again things I had remembered (and missed dearly), and things I had forgotten (flapjacks . . . how did I forget about those?!). But I am here by myself, and though the peace is delighftul, the silence is deafening. I feel the weight of memory, and am reminded of what makes a home.

'Home' is so much more than the building you sleep in. It is a combination of familiarities:

- of place: you know where the shops and relevant buildings (house, work, school, etc.) are. How to navigate the streets.

- of culture: you know how to fit in and navigate life.

- of people: you have a 'tribe'- communities of which you are a part. 

Visiting old haunts hits on two of the three areas. But the third . . . my family is not with me. Most of my friends have long since moved away. A few are still around- and joyful indeed were those reunions- but the bulk have left. And so I feel a sort of hollowness inside me, even as I enjoy these favored activities. It turns out that seeing familiar streets is fun; walking them alone is not.

Ultimately, such things make me reflect. And I (we?) don't do that enough. Appropriately (and providentially), my pastor in church that week spoke to this very thing. We live in an age of frenetic activity and instant gratification. A 'what's next' mentality pervades. Our lives are packed, and we rush along with occasional weekend breathers as we gear up for the next week. We live for pleasure, comfort, and experiences, looking to maximize them all. To what end?

My pastor encourages us to reflect. I do so as I walk the town we called home. I feel the weight of memory, realizing that mine are tied to places and people, and the latter is the more important of the two. Seeing old friends in a new setting? Delightful. Seeing a familiar setting without the people who made it home? Bittersweet at best. 

So often I hear myself and others long for other locations. "I can't wait to see _____." "I miss living in ______." Our focus is off. It is totally fine to enjoy locations . . . but better to enjoy (and yearn for) the people. We see this in the Bible- the apostle Paul talks several times of longing to see people in Thessalonica (here), Rome (here), Philippi (here), and others. Note his focus. It should be ours.

This hits home as I wandered through Germany and England last week. I enjoyed the sights, but the real gem of the trip was seeing family and friends in both locations. Though few remain, as I mention above, it was a joy to see those who were still there- far better than the ice cream or chocolate. Or even the ruins. 

As I returned home, I realized that I'd much rather be with my family and friends sitting in my house, than alone exploring some magical land. It's not the place . . . it's the people. We don't need extravagant experiences to enjoy and strengthen each other. We just need . . . well, each other.