Driving along State Road 30, the Honoapiilani Highway, toward Lahaina in Maui, we passed a memorial area commemorating the 101 victims of the 2023 fire that destroyed much of the surrounding area. The flowers, lei-draped crosses, and signs, reflected a sadness that still touches the hearts of those who survived. Later that night, our server at the hotel restaurant regaled us with her story from that time, sharing still-fresh memories of the fear, confusion, and horror marking that moment in her life.

Several days later, I found myself speaking with a young man who told me of his mentor who was counseling him on course and career choices. His voice was bright and optimistic, the tone and tenor of one who sees great possibility in what lies ahead. Underneath the enthusiasm was the voice of youthful inexperience, wondering aloud about the choices ahead and their myriad uncertainties. I was struck by his frequent reference to his mentor and their conversations.

Reflecting on that conversation, my mind wandered to my own mentor who died almost exactly a year ago. As I reread what I wrote last November, I felt the passing of time in a visceral way, like the waves of the Pacific washing over me as we floated upon it a few days ago. Wasn’t it just yesterday that I sat in Professor Jerden’s office in the College of Business at Butler University speaking, as he used to say, “of cabbages and kings”? Interestingly, an expression he frequently used that I never looked up until writing this post. It is a line from a Lewis Carroll poem entitled The Walrus and the Carpenter and describes a free-range conversation.

Earlier in November, Sally and I made a pilgrimage to the small cemetery in central Indiana where her father and grandparents are buried. It was All Souls Day and we spent the afternoon wandering among the graves, reading the names and dates, and speculating on the tidbits of their stories that appeared on tombstones. A great gift of my wife’s is her ability, and willingness, to remember. She shared many familiar stories and a few new ones as we looked at the names and prayed for souls who have passed from this world.

In the 1982 film, Blade Runner, the “replicant” Roy Batty delivers a monologue at the end of his life, describing the many grand moments of experience which will be “lost in time, like tears in the rain.” An interesting theme within the movie is the need of these man-made replicants to have a connection to their past, much of which were implanted memories that were not really theirs. We watch as they carry photos and other memorabilia, looking for some kind of grounding and story that would make them more human.

Sitting among the many tabs I keep open on my browser are several obituaries that I cannot bring myself to close. Sometimes I go to them intentionally, but as time goes one, I seek them less but occasionally stumble upon them. The random collisions with these memories are gifts and I always take a moment to say a prayer as I remember the individual and his or her place in my life. But I also feel the pang of sadness at their passing and a deepening sadness at the slow passing of their memory.

Last night, I watched as the chaos of our grandchildren unfolded across the house and into the backyard. No room was untouched, no toy unplayed. The sheer energy of it was explosive, and the only equal to the physical dynamism was the volume of its output. I smile as I think of another Blade Runner quotation, an encouragement to Roy Batty from his creator: “Revel in your time.”

In his book, The Fault in Our Stars, John Green tackles the pain of love, loss, and remembering, as main character Hazel reflects on her love’s death:

“The pleasure of remembering had been taken from me, because there was no longer anyone to remember with. It felt like losing your co-rememberer meant losing the memory itself, as if the things we’d done were less real and important than they had been hours before.”

The joyful moments of last night have passed and their memory is a far-cry from the living of them, but I am grateful for the pleasure of having experienced them. My time with my friend has passed and though the memories cannot fill the hole left in his departure, the smile of the times we had offers some comfort. The edge of that loss, and the pang of return to it in remembering, only heighten the joy of living the next moment – so much more is the gift of now present in his passing.

All stories must eventually come to an end, but that only increases the preciousness of them along the way. Just as a flower blooms and then passes, so does our time and the memories we gathered along the way – some to be passed along and most to pass with us. However, we have the opportunity to remember today and find the pleasure of memory in moments lived. Not all is lost.

With that, I will close with another movie quotation. This time from Gladiator as Juba buries the figurines of Maximus’ wife and son in the dirt floor of the Colosseum: “And now we are free. I will see you again…but not yet…not yet.”