For "All-Saints" Sunday...

The little boy held his grandfather’s hand as they walked through the park.  They walked, talking about life – as the little boy understood it.   “Grandpa, tell me stories about when you were little.”  Grandpa, he’d lived a few years.   By that point, a man in the latter part of his sixth decade, indeed had a few stories to tell.   Grandpa went silent for a while, thinking, trying to remember a good one. 

The little boy waited patiently, busying himself with other thoughts that drew his attention in the meantime.   But in the grandfather’s mind, something was happening – something the little boy had no way of knowing – much less understand.   In the grandfather’s heart and soul, something was happening.   The word we use for this is “remembering”.  His grandfather was remembering – but it was more than that.  

After just a few minutes, he hit on a good story to tell his grandson.   And that story was followed by another memory…  sparking some more memories… more remembering… and more stories.    Stories of days long ago ended, of technology long ago dropped by modern people...  of people long ago gone – people the little boy would never know.   But his grandfather knew them.     Memories…  shared – to the little boy, at first, stories, interesting as they were, fascinating even.  They weren’t the boy’s memories, but they changed him too. 

Even though they walked quite some time, those cool stories made the time seem to pass quickly.   Licking their ice cream cones, his grandfather told him he had a special present for him.  He reached into his pocket and handed him an old and worn, pocket knife.   The little boy heard one more story – a story about that knife… about how his grandfather’s father had bought it for him, and how he had been told to use it well…    and take good care of it…   because someday he would know to give it to someone special. 

The boy was fascinated by all this – hearing stories of his grandfather, and his great-grand-father!   They meant something – somehow – some way.  It meant something.   And they meant something more to his grandfather too – these stories, re-told, re-lived, re-membered…   those moments, those days, those people in the stories – they meant the world to his grandfather.   They meant the world.   And Re-telling them was a gift – re-telling them in a moment, a time, that recognized these stories as the sacred memories they were – although the boy wouldn’t have known to say that… and maybe the grandfather probably wouldn’t have called them that either.   The little boy didn’t know what was happening in his grandfather’s heart and soul.   Even so, the little boy had been fascinated by all of it.

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As an older teenager now, he still had the knife his grandfather had given him that day in the park.  By that point in his life, he didn’t usually carry it, but he felt it was important to carry it with him the day they buried his grandfather.   As the preacher said some words, he pulled the knife from his pocket and held it – turned it a little… and he remembered…    

He remembered some of those stories he’d heard that day– some of those stories his grandpa had told him that day in the park many years before.    He remembered stories about what it was like to go see the Brooklyn Dodgers play in Ebbet’s Field.  He’d heard stories of the famous Short-Stop – #1…   Pee-Wee Reese…   and Jackie Robinson – famous number 42, who played second base for the Dodgers.   His Grandfather was there when Vin Scully joined Red Barber behind the Dodgers mic for the first time – the voice of the dodgers!   

The teenager – this young man growing into adulthood now – remembered his grandfather’s story of what it was like to live as a little boy in a World War.   He remembered hearing about rationing, and about how the whole country changed – positioning itself on a war-footing, even though the enemy was so far away.  

He remembered the stories he heard that day of what it was like to live in a small house with 5 other siblings, and how they had to share almost everything.  He heard about those early movies – “the talkies” –he called them.    He remembered hearing his grandfather talk about the first few generations of cars, and how crazy the horns sounded, and about the gangsters Dutch Shultz and “Lucky” Luciano. 

Stories of the old days… although the stories came second-hand to the young man, they were told to him by his grandfather…   second-hand…   but by then were feeling more real.   “Remembering”   started changing a little for him.   “Remembering” – even if the memories weren’t his own – began to feel just a little different.    The memories were a little more real… a little more like a gift, a gift his grandfather had given him so long ago.  

And as his grandfather’s casket was lowered into the ground, he felt his father’s hand on his back.  The two men standing side-by-side… they understood the moment… both with their own memories… memories shared, memories handed down…   memories that joined them tougher.    

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As a young professional – by now a few years into his new career as a journalist, he was developing into a promising writer.   He and his young wife – newly married – looked forward to continuing their walk into an unknown future – unknown, but exciting.   Unknown, but inviting…   inviting them into an unfolding newness.  

The pocket knife – that gift from his grandfather – marked time in a drawer… in a box, a box where the young man kept his “little boy” special things.   

The memories he’d been entrusted with also kept their place in the young man’s mind.   They were kept in a mental box – not looked at every day, but certainly honored.  Special occasions would come, special dates, anniversaries, special conversations – those sacred kind – and that mental box, with all those sacred memories – that box would assert itself in the young man.   And he would heed its call, and open the memory box…   and he would re-tell…    re-live…    re-member.    

But by then, he’d started doing some of his own remembering.    A fishing trip with his father, a wonderful family vacation many years before, special songs imbued with special meaning, his first-date with his now-wife…   memories… added. 

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Middle aged, the man took more time to assess his life now.   It wasn’t so much a conscious thing, but he did it just the same.   Life…   his life… as if it were an independent thing, with its own sentience, would call him, invite him… demand at times… to be paid attention to. 

“Look on your life”, it would say.  “No judgement – just look…   place meaning where it needs to be placed…   remove meaning where it no longer warrants any.    Look on your life.  Unfold it, examine it…   listen to it.    Listen – it’s still speaking, with a changed voice indeed, if you can hear it.”  

He’d won some writing awards – he was indeed skillful as a wordsmith.    Although he’d tried various forms of writing, he leaned towards writing about lives, and people, and memories…   lives and people… and memories…

This voice of life invited the man to listen to his memories…  with a new ear.   With children of his own now, his ears had indeed changed.   His Spirit had changed.   This man was no longer the same as he was decades ago.   Working hard at his growing career had changed him.   Growing with his wife had changed him.     Having boys of his own had changed him.  Each of these added memories – each of these… and all the other things his life had travelled through, and with, and around…   all these added memories to his mental safe-deposit box of sacred experiences.   

His boys were young men of their own now, beginning their own lives – navigating their own ways through a new and exciting life.   Memories would come… often starting with, “my little boys…”   and a deep smile, a soul-smile, would descend on him…     a joy and a sorrow at the same time.   A deep joy…  and a deeper sorrow too.    “My boys…   my little boys….”   And memories of his grandfather would come. 

Now and then, when the memories called to him strongly enough, he’d retrieve the knife – that old pocket knife, that knife he loved as if it were a person – and perhaps it was… perhaps it had become one.   He’d hold it, he’d remember.   He’d remember about the Brooklyn Dodgers, about Sunday drives, about playing with his kids, about vacations.  He’d remember crazy-uncle stories, and cousin stories, and stories of scars on knees.  He’d remember memories that he’d lived through…     and memories he’d inherited.     

It was right to bring the pocket knife to his father’s funeral.    And as his father’s casket was being lowered into the ground, he placed each one of his hands on the backs of his two “boys” – boys that were men now.    And he knew they remembered too.  

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Long retired, the old man had time to spend exclusively on the things he enjoyed.    And he did enjoy spending time with his grandson.   They didn’t come over as often as he’d like, but they did come.   And when they did, he’d take his grandson on adventures – some just in the living room, or back yard, and some in the woods or the park.   As they “adventured”, he’d regale his grandson with stories of “the old days” – about what it was like to “adventure” back then. 

And he learned that his grandson had an ear for these stories…   he’d listen, and ask questions… he  engage with the stories.    So the old man told him stories… stories he’d written about, stories he’d heard told, stories he’d lived through…   stories he’d inherited.  

And one day, he told him a story about a pocket knife.   And as he told his grandson who it’d belonged to, he fished out the knife from his pocket.   He told him this knife had first belonged to his great-great-grandfather… and it was time for him to have it.   Hard to use now…   hard to open…   probably not worth very much, but very... very valuable.   With saucer-like eyes, his grandson accepted this gift.  He told him he needed to take care of it.   This knife had a heart, and it remembers – he told him.    It remembers.     He told his grandson to keep it safe – to take care of it.  He made sure he knew he was entrusted with the care of this memory.  

When they got home, he entrusted him with a few more things.   The old man had taken the time to write his story – not a biography so much as a story of his life – a story of the stories of his life.    He had two copies, each in a golden colored envelope – each with the name of one of his sons.   He told his grandson to give them to his daddy, and to make sure the other one got to the little boy’s uncle.   And he told his grandson to tell his daddy – and his uncle – to read this one day to him and any other children they would have.  

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Years after the man had gone, his boys – those little boys – began to read to their children… again…   “These are my memories.”  The familiar story began…  “They didn’t all start that way, but they’re mine now.   They’re mine because I lived them, and I heard them, and I told them, and I wrote about them... and I remember them.     Although it is important to me how these memories came to be mine…  the more important thing is that they were entrusted to me.    They were entrusted to my care.   So read these stories son… and read them to your children…  and know that every time you read them to your children, they will more and more belong to you…  and to them.   Know that every time you read them, and tell them…    these memories live again.”  

And these pages are read on special days, days that call to be remembered.