Memory Maker
We remember the good and the bad
A few years ago, a dear friend said to me, “That was a memory maker.” The phrase stuck with me. It’s a simple yet powerful way to describe some of life’s most significant moments — whether joyful or painful. I’ve borrowed the term many times since.
While searching for the perfect Christmas presents one year, I came across a magazine article that echoed the same idea. It pointed out that the new shirt may not fit, the money and gift cards are soon spent, and the latest toy often loses its magic all too quickly. The author suggested that the gift of an experience — especially one shared with the recipient — tends to be remembered longer and enjoyed more deeply than most material gifts.
On the other end of the spectrum, PTSD is a condition suffered by many who’ve lived through trauma, when painful memories remain unresolved and inaccessible to healing.
But good memories can be just as impactful, depending on their context.
I want to share a recent Memory Maker in our lives — one I hope brings you a bit of joy, too. These days, in the world we live in, opportunities for joy sometimes feel harder to come by.
Recently, my spouse and I celebrated our Golden Wedding Anniversary. We made it — 50 years of marriage. We’ve weathered serious illnesses — more than once, either of us might not have survived. Time and experience have changed us, but they haven’t changed the essence of who we are. In many ways, we’ve become better partners through the trials we’ve faced and overcome.
We share a common history, a deep-rooted heritage, and — though our goals and dreams have evolved over time — they have always been grounded in a mutual commitment to each other, and to the marriage itself.
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When we first tied the knot, I dreamed of one day reaching our golden anniversary. My parents never did. Nor did theirs. That made the milestone all the more meaningful for me.
For the last three years, we’ve been in an Assisted Living Facility. My husband suffered a massive stroke in December 2006. His ability to speak was compromised and he didn’t like parties. Our only son is not too fond of them either. However, reaching such a milestone was worthy of celebration.
We wanted something small, but inclusive. When I spoke with the head of our dietary staff, she beamed! She seemed genuinely thrilled at the thought of helping us. She agreed that I should give instructions, foot the bill, but that the staff would take care of the work and details. They purchased the biggest sheet cake I ever saw. It had yellow trim, like our wedding flowers and even my dress.
Decorations were put around the lobby between our two dining rooms where Bob and I ceremoniously cut the first piece of cake. We shared it, using forks to give each other the traditional first bites. Afterward, the staff took over cutting and serving it to all of the residents who came to dine.
Our son raised a toast in plastic fluted glasses — far more elegant than the the paper cups I envisioned.
Some relatives came who we had not seen in the three years we lived here. Our chaplain offered a scripture and short prayer and lots of photos were taken to freeze time. It went all too fast.
I’m glad I didn’t cry, I’m so sentimental.
One of the most special parts? Our only grandchild got to meet several members of her extended family for the very first time. Watching generations connect — even briefly — was its own kind of magic.
I hope you find reasons to celebrate or create some memory makers of your own.
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