HELLO!

Last night I presided and preached at a funeral for someone I never met, although the older I get the more I am discovering that people did meet me, but I can’t remember them. It’s not that I have a poor memory, thanks to my mother’s genes, my memory is about as good as it gets. I tell people, I have three primary gifts, I am loud, I remember and I am very organized. Other than that…not much to offer. However, the truth is I remember stories, stories I find interesting, unique, memorable. My brain tends to pass over information that is commonly shared, experienced, and latch onto stories that a) entertain, b) inspire, and c) reveal deeper truths. Those stories come from conversations, being aware and interested, being present, “showing up”. I try very hard to prevent my own norms from shielding me from the wisdom of those who are not like me, including those I don’t care for, those who do not care for me.

When I listen, I am not listening for what I already know, confirmation bias it is called. I am not listening to friends and family with warmth and agreement and those who irritate me with distain and annoyance. I intentionally listen to people, those whom I share a common bond, those who loathe me, and complete strangers, with the same openness, the same curiosity and expectation. I want to be filled with a variety of stories I can call on, for my own guidance, for the inspiration of those listening to me, for the deeper and lasting journey of faith, life and love.

As I look back on the 18 years as a part-time navigator in downtown Dartmouth and Dartmouth North, I am remembering the conversations filled with memorable stories. Some whom I met once, who met me at a foodbank or outreach centres, will remember me, but I will not remember them. If we met once or twice and no story was shared that seemed “out of the ordinary” it is doubtful I will remember you. I meet people all the time, at funerals, at coffee shops, in public, who say, “you remember me don’t you, you did the wedding for my cousin 20 years ago?” I used to say nothing, for fear of offending them. But now I think the question betrays a strange misunderstanding of life, honesty feels like the best answer. “No I don’t, that was 20 years ago, and we only met the once”. Conversely, I never, ever ask someone, “do you remember me?”. I assume no one will remember me. Instead, what I love to do is share the story we have made together. No matter if the other remembers it or not, I want them to know how that experience helped open my eyes, reveal some truth, or just entertained me so, that life remains a true delight.

The conventional is a duty, something I must do, have an obligation to be part of, everyday requires tasks that are necessary. I do these without rancor or resentment, no complaints, but also without any need to remember. These experiences fade and rarely stick. But the non-ordinary, the unexpected, the way God’s love brings surprises, especially when it is rooted in experience that is not mine, from someone whom I might not identify as friend, those remain, usually for a lifetime. Peace, Kevin