Memories

Memories - they can be a tricky thing. We collect them throughout our lives. Some are good. Some are bad. Sometimes we wish we could remember more, while other times we choose to forget.


Memories seem to have a way of creeping in when you least expect. It could be a place, a gesture, or sometimes a song that triggers memories.


For me, it was a place. A church.


I am not a regular church goer. I usually go for Christmas or for occasions such as weddings and funerals. It's not because I don't believe in God. I honestly do not know where I stand on that subject, but that discussion is for another time.


I was at a church last week - a Greek church. I was there with my kids and some friends for their annual Greek fest. We had parked across the street at the mall and took the shuttle up to the church. While we were waiting for the shuttle to return when we were ready to return to our cars, my friend asked if the kids had seen the inside of the church. We had walked through the lobby on our way to the restrooms, but that was as far as we got. I thought it would be something they would like to see, so I walked them in.


Once through the lobby, I stopped. I could not go any further. The church was gorgeous, as many are, but the sight of the apostles brought me to tears. This church was all to similar to the last Greek church I was in.


The last time was in January of this year. I was in this particular church for the purpose of a funeral. The funeral of a friend. My friend, Marie, had lost her battle to pancreatic cancer.


We were not the closest of friends. Our girls were, and still are, good friends. We both worked together to help within the school. There were many other people that knew her better than I, but working together so many times, I considered her my friend.


It has been almost 6 months since her passing. Her youngest daughter is in my Brownie troop. At first I thought seeing her and her dad would be a difficult thing. I lost a parent and I understood how hard it can be. It was not as difficult as I expected. Even when her daughter would say she couldn't participate in the Mother's Day craft because she didn't have a mom anymore.


I thought I had come to the point of acceptance. I have my own personal beliefs as to why she left this world when she did. That doesn't mean I understand, but I can accept.


Quite regularly, I drive by her resting place. I do not shed tears, but I do whisper a hello. Her memories and the memories of that day come rushing back, but I accept. Why did the same memories come rushing back in that church and almost bring me to my knees?