Remember Me?

As part of my devotions lately, I have been reading a chapter per day from the book, Crazy Love by Francis Chan. It seems Chan's book is the Purpose-Driven Life of this decade, so I thought I better check it out. A few days ago, I read Chan's comments on page 46: " In about fifty years (give or take a couple of decades), no one will remember you. Everyone you know will be dead. Certainly no one will care about what job you had, what car you drove, what school you attended, or what clothes you wore." I have spent the last couple of days mulling that over.

 

At first glance, this is a horribly-depressing statement, only because our first reactions, as humans, to anything in life are always selfish. We get a little panicky because we start thinking about the fact that it will seem as though we never existed. Then, after those initial thoughts dissipate, it's a charge to make sure that every second we are here counts - not in a hedonistic way but satisfying our time and place purpose.

 

Then, I started thinking about all the physical items that are left behind to remind us that A PERSON EXISTED. There are memories, but those aren't tangible, and they are valid only as long as the rememberer exists.  Even then, the memories are somewhat flawed; if you are 100% honest, you will agree that a memory gets "juicier" and more detailed the more often it is told. What, then, is a true memory? There are photographs, but even those aren't accurate because they are only snapshots of a particular moment in time; plus, they give no additional information regarding the person's thoughts, hopes, moods, etc. Seriously, think about how many times you have smiled at the camera when you felt more like punching someone or bawling your eyes out. A person's existence can be legitimized through legal documents, but they certainly do not give a true indication of what s/he was like. Likewise, his/her "stuff" may give an indication of what s/he valued in life, but all that "stuff" eventually wears out, becomes obsolete, and let's face it, is worth nothing.

 

In my opinion, journals and diaries are the most valuable, tangible objects to keep the memory of a person who is no longer here alive.

 

If that's the case, then our generation should be well-documented.  Facebook, Twitter, and MySpace (supposedly making a comeback) have given those who want to participate the opportunity to document the minutia of their lives. Blogging has become a voyeuristic activity for both writers and readers. The Internet is glutted with the words and sentences of people who want to be both heard and remembered. It seems they are getting their wish; the Library of Congress is now archiving text messages for posterity. At first glance, that seems like a silly concept (and it is), but in the long run, it will be an interesting anthropological study of what this generation was like - what we talked about, what we were concerned about, what was important to us.

 

Call me a pessimist, but the electronic element in all of this just feels a little Brave New World to me - cold and sterile; devoid of artistic appeal and pathos. While it restores the personal touch that photographs and memories lack, it still feels lacking.

 

A couple of months ago, I acquired a potpourri of boxes containing some of my grandma's stuff. She died on February 7, so opening up the boxes spurred a walk down memory lane. A good portion of the items in the boxes were sewing items, and as I dug around, sifting through I came across a small tablet. It was recipe card size with perforations at the top - the idea was that you could write a recipe and rip it out from the tablet to either share or put into a recipe box. As I opened it up and started flipping through, I saw it was a daily journal from 1982. Each day for a few months, Grandma had written a few lines about the day. Even though she didn't say anything extraordinary or profound, I heard what was on her mind, and it was written in her handwriting.

 

It was the best treasure in the box.

 

To date, I have something like ten journals stuffed away in my drawer. I jokingly (but not so jokingly) have instructed my BFF that if I die before her, she has to grab all of them and burn them. In those hand-written journals are my thoughts, frustrations, joys, judgments, and praises. While the journals show what was on my heart at any given moment, they have not always been so flattering - concerning me and everyone else. They are, however, an accurate and sometimes, heart-wrenching, chronology of my personal and spiritual journey.

 

Even as I type this, I wonder if fifty years from now pens and paper will still be accessible? Will anyone know how to write in cursive? Will anyone actually do it? Will anyone be able to read it?  Even now, my students complain that they can't read the comments I put on their papers because they are hand-written and not printed. It's just weird to think about since paper and penmanship have been such a big part of our lives for something like 500 years.

 

And to me, something handwritten, especially with regard to a journal or diary, is far more valuable. It is the rich combination of a person's intimate thoughts and handwriting - a true window to his/her heart. Of all the historical artifacts (and I like history), the letters are the most valuable to me at a museum. It adds a personal perspective to a historical event, much like Anne Frank does in her diary. Likewise, the handwritten items are a form of art. Both the United States Constitution and Declaration of Independence are lovely to look at simply because of the ornate handwriting.

 

Even so, I think I am in the minority in believing that. Am I anti-technology? Not at all, but I will readily admit that I am cautiously pessimistic about throwing out the old to replace the new. Every time that happens, something is lost - sometimes, this is good; oftentimes, it is not.

 

As to Francis Chan's comments, quite honestly, I have no qualms about being forgotten fifty years from now. I will do what I can do, and I will try to fulfill my destiny in the best way I can. I am completely at peace with that idea. As to my journals, I am still on the fence with regard to that issue. Personally, I think here is something purely magical about pen, ink, and handwriting; however, I am not so convinced that future generations will agree. If they read them, however, they will have a definite portrait of who I was, and they will learn that my thoughts, dreams, and struggles weren't all that much different than theirs.