Season of Forgetting

Christmas had always been Terri's favorite time of year.

She couldn't remember when that had begun.

Perhaps it was the music.

Perhaps it was the lights.

Perhaps it was the smell of cinnamon and pine.

Or perhaps it was something deeper.

Something she could no longer put into words.

That December, snow had settled quietly around her little mountain house. The trees stood heavy and white beneath a pale morning sky, and smoke rose slowly from the chimney.

Terri sat beside the window with a blanket around her shoulders.

She had been awake for some time.

She couldn't remember what she had dreamed about.

She couldn't remember whether she had slept well.

But she remembered that she wanted to pray.

So she closed her eyes.

"Good morning, God."

The words came naturally.

She smiled.

"I think it's morning."

She waited.

There was no answer.

There rarely was one she could hear.

But Terri had learned that prayer wasn't always about hearing an answer.

Sometimes it was about making room for one.

She had spent much of her life filling every empty space.

Work.

Errands.

Appointments.

People.

Noise.

Obligations.

She had mistaken busyness for purpose more times than she cared to admit.

Now dementia had taken away much of that busyness.

At first, she had considered it cruel.

She had fought the stillness.

She would walk from room to room looking for something to do, becoming anxious when she couldn't remember what it was.

But slowly, painfully, she had begun to discover something.

The quiet was not empty.

It was simply quiet.

And in the quiet, she sometimes found God.

Terri opened her eyes.

A small nativity scene sat on the mantel.

She had placed it there herself.

At least, she thought she had.

Mary.

Joseph.

The shepherds.

The tiny figure of Christ lying in the manger.

Terri stared at the infant.

"A new beginning," she whispered.

She remembered that much.

Christmas wasn't supposed to be about the presents.

Or the parties.

Or the frantic rushing from one obligation to another.

It was about birth.

Hope.

Faith.

The possibility that something sacred could enter the world quietly, almost unnoticed.

Terri wondered if perhaps that was happening inside her too.

Perhaps even now, in this strange season of forgetting, God was beginning something new.

She had always assumed that spiritual growth meant moving forward.

Accomplishing things.

Becoming wiser.

Climbing higher.

But what if sometimes growth meant surrendering?

What if the next step wasn't another mountain to climb?

What if it was simply learning to sit still?

Terri looked outside.

A deer stood beneath the pines.

It lifted its head and listened.

Terri watched it for several minutes.

She couldn't remember what deer were called.

The word was somewhere in her mind, but she couldn't reach it.

Still, she knew what she was seeing.

A beautiful creature standing quietly in the snow.

And that was enough.

She whispered a prayer of gratitude.

"Thank You."

She didn't know exactly what she was thanking God for.

The deer?

The snow?

The warm room?

Her life?

Whatever remained of it?

Maybe all of it.

She began to understand that gratitude didn't require a perfect memory.

Perhaps gratitude could exist without knowing the names of things.

A warm cup of tea.

Sunlight on the floor.

The smell of pine.

A hand held in hers.

A song she couldn't remember the name of but somehow still knew how to hum.

These were small blessings.

But they were still blessings.

Terri reached for her Bible on the table.

She opened it randomly.

The words blurred before her.

She could no longer read as she once had.

For a moment, frustration rose inside her.

She closed the book.

"I can't even do this anymore."

Tears gathered in her eyes.

Then she placed her hand gently on the cover.

"I'm sorry."

She wasn't sure whether she was speaking to God or herself.

Perhaps both.

"I don't remember very much anymore."

She swallowed.

"But You do."

The thought stopped her.

God remembered.

Even if she didn't.

He knew the years she could no longer recall.

He knew the people whose names had vanished.

He knew every kindness she had forgotten giving.

Every mistake she regretted.

Every prayer she had prayed.

Every tear.

Every joy.

Every moment she had thought nobody noticed.

Perhaps dementia could take her memories.

But it could not take them from God.

Terri leaned back in her chair.

For the first time, that thought brought her peace.

She didn't have to carry her entire life anymore.

She could let God carry what she could no longer hold.

Outside, snow began falling again.

Terri watched the flakes drift downward.

"Show me how to serve You today," she whispered.

Then she smiled.

She had no idea what she would do.

She might forget the prayer in an hour.

She might forget it before lunch.

But she believed God would remember it.

And perhaps that was the faith she had been searching for all her life.

Not the certainty that she would understand everything.

Not the promise that life would be easy.

But the quiet trust that she was never truly walking alone.

Even when she forgot the path.

Even when she forgot where she was going.

Even when she forgot who she had been.

God knew.

And somewhere beyond the reach of her failing memory, He still knew her.

Terri closed her eyes.

She breathed slowly.

For a little while, she did nothing.

She simply sat.

And listened.

The house was silent.

The mountains were silent.

The snow was silent.

And within that silence, Terri felt something she hadn't felt in a very long time.

Peace.

Not the peace of having all the answers.

The peace of no longer needing them.

She opened her eyes.

The morning light had begun to spread across the snow.

A new day.

A new beginning.

Terri smiled.

"Let's walk together," she whispered.

She wasn't sure where the road led.

But she no longer needed to know.

She would take the next step when it came.

And if she forgot the way, she trusted that God would remember it for her.