I Will Remember You

One of my all-time favorite songs is “I Will Remember You,” by Sarah MacLachlan. The music and lyrics fill me with powerful emotions and give me carte blanche permission to celebrate my friends and ancestors who have died. I listen to the song frequently but especially on November 1 and 2 when the holy days of All Saints and All Souls are celebrated in the liturgical calendar. Mexican culture, very prominent in Southern California, also celebrates “Dia de los Muertos,” which seems like a combination of the two. All three hold significance because these yearly observances bring us face-to-face with death, a reality most people struggle to understand and accept.

I remember when I was a little girl in Catholic school religion class, the sister/teacher asked us to make a list of our top ten questions for God. Without hesitation, I wrote, “Why does everything have to die?” While I was given the usual perfunctory, theological answers by well-meaning adults, my curious mind and restless soul were never satisfied and that question became the heart of my life-long spiritual quest.

Even though we were taught that heaven was the reward for faithfulness, I felt frightened (and yes, a little spooked) at the thought of death when I was young. Paradoxically, I was steeped in the Midwestern dramatic seasonal weather changes, where life and death surrounded us like a mantle of normalcy. We ate, drank, and even laughed with community during numerous “wakes” at funeral homes and then knelt in the church in solemn reverence during the funerals. Later, when I accompanied my mom to daily mass and heard her sing the haunting refrains of the requiem for the souls of the dead, tears of deep lament would fall. (I can still hear her beautiful voice in my head.)

Comfort came to me when these special holy days arrived at the beginning of November. Encouraged to look beyond the superficial, I felt connected to what we call the “communion of saints.” I read the biographies of those canonized with a big “St.” and felt buoyed up by that river of grace, I was also drawn to stories my mother and her sisters told about their parents and ancestors who seemed so alive and vibrant in their memories. I loved looking at their old photographs and wondering what their hopes and dreams had been. Remembrance kept them alive, I realized, and in that way, death was conquered. The Paschal Mystery (the story of the life, death and resurrection of Jesus) materialized before my eyes as I gazed at the photos and has remained the most fascinating, mysterious, and compelling meditation of my life.

When we settled in our first home in California, far away from where I was born and raised, I asked my parents for extra copies of the old photos of family members, many I had never even met. Pleased that I wanted the faded and dusty snapshots, they were generous in sharing them. I enjoyed restoring and framing these precious possessions and for many years, displayed them on a small table in my living room. After my parents died, I acquired even more photos for my collection. Eventually, I constructed an ancestor wall of remembrance, still in place today. Some days I sing “I Will Remember You,” when I focus on them, the song like a prayer.

Now in the final chapters of life, I hope to be remembered too. I know I am not alone. Even Jesus feared the apostles would not remember him when he asked them to eat bread and drink wine in his memory. What do I want to be remembered for? That is an interesting question, one I have filled many journals pondering. Bottom line, I simply hope to be remembered as someone who embraced life creatively and whole-heartedly; as someone truly present in relationships and who squandered everything for love. I also hope I am remembered for dying well, the flip side of the coin (working on that). Whether I am remembered in digital snapshots on mobile phones or “old school” photographs on the wall, in the end, it is enough simply to be remembered.

“Where once there was a darkness, a deep and endless night, you gave me everything you had, oh you gave me light. I will remember you, will you remember me? Don’t let your life pass you by. Weep not for the memories.” –Sarah MacLachlan