Some things we clearly remember. Or at least, given the unreliability of memory, we think we remember.

We retell stories of what we were doing, where we were, what happened. It happens with the sudden traumatic death of thousands. It happens with the death of individuals. 

We tell the stories to keep the memory alive, to keep the person alive, to remember the cost. To remember the moment our life changed because their life changed, too.

It’s okay.

It’s important to tell the story, to remember the cost. Even years later. 

Jesus invited his disciples to remember the bread and the wine that he served them at his last meal.  Paul was given by God and passed on to the Corinthians a simple recounting of that night:

For I received from the Lord that which I also delivered to you, that the Lord Jesus, on the night when He was betrayed, took bread; and when He had given thanks, He broke it and said, “This is My body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of Me.” In the same way He also took the cup after supper, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in My blood; do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of Me.” For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until He comes.

We live our lives changed by the stories we remember. That living is fine and good and fundamentally human. And remembering is good, too.