Always

I adore the late Amy Krouse Rosenthal’s memoir-of-sorts Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life. Organized as an eclectic and autobiographical encyclopedia, entries cover everything from “Bowling” to “Sneezing” and “Jobs I Could Never Do.” Some passages are heavy, some are hilarious, some are nostalgic—all are endearing. 

I was first introduced to Rosenthal’s encyclopedia years ago during a writing workshop when I was invited to imitate her work. We read an entry about her childhood home called “3841 Bordeaux,” and then picked an address of our own to return to in our minds. 

Rosenthal writes, “3841 felt as forever to me then as the finiteness of life feels to me now. One could count on things. Always: curled up worms on the sidewalk after it rained. Always: the comforting sound of the Cubs game or the Bears game on TV; the rise and fall of the announcer’s voice; the muffled roar of the crowd; not understanding any of it; steady, likable background noise. Always: my dad’s bottom drawer of neatly folded undershirts.…” 

After several “always,” Rosenthal concludes: “There were a lot of alwayses. Even today the number 3841 sounds more like infinity to me than the word infinity itself.”

That refrain of always and always and always has echoed in my head ever since.

905 Byron Road. Grandma’s table. Always:  warm apple crisp with a scoop of Hudsonville vanilla ice cream. Always: Grandma perched on the edge of her chair ready to jump up to pour a little more coffee, add a few saltines to the tray. Always:  Old Maid cards stored high in the cupboard, waiting for us to beg to play.  Always: Grandpa’s belly laugh as he told the same stories over and over. 

901 Perry Street. The house I lived in from first to ninth grade. Always: warm summer days inside our wooden playhouse in the backyard. Always: curled inside the window seat in my room, watching for the headlights of my dad’s car at the end of the day. Always: enchiladas and oldies in the kitchen on Sunday nights after church. Always: hair tied tight in sponge curlers on Saturday night, trying to fall asleep with my lumpy head on a soft pillow. Always: soft feet on the crunchy gravel driveway.  Always: dad tucking us in, saying our prayers, lying down, and closing his eyes for just a minute.

2341 Riley Street. My church growing up. Always: running late, rushing down the aisle to the tune of the organ’s prelude. Always: sliding down the hard pew, a small purse on my arm, equipped with Lifesavers. Always: Extra attention from my Sunday School and Calvinette teachers because I was the only girl in my class. Always: Cracker Jacks and oranges handed out after the Children’s Christmas program. Always: a group of suited men standing on the front steps of the church to smoke after the service. Always: “What is your only comfort in life and in death?”

Perhaps what makes the “always” so poignant is that our eventual understanding that always isn’t always. It’s for what seemed like would be always. It’s what we at one time thought might be always.

 Those six letters contain the grief of knowing what was, what was taken for granted, what is now gone. Those afternoons at Grandma’s. The baby’s soft ringlet curls. Waking to see the sunrise out the bedroom window. The kids arguing in the backseat. The dog snoring next to me. 

As time marches on, the always are the memories and moments that remain, those that haven’t evaporated. 

I’ve noticed a trend on social media of parents naming what they believe will be a core memory for their children: meeting a sports star, attending a concert, winning a race, going to Disney for the first time. But the reality is that we seldom know when we’re in the moment what will stick and what will fade. 

We don’t have to look far—or read every blog on this site— to be aware of a sense of loss this summer.  Loss of denominations, loss of jobs, loss of health or mobility, loss of people, loss of faith, loss of unity, loss of what was and what we might have hoped would always be.

The weather in West Michigan has also seemed particularly stormy for the last month, and I feel like every few days we’re picking up sticks in the backyard. We’re cleaning up the debris of the branches shaken loose or cracked off in another storm’s fierce winds.

I find myself contemplating not just what remains, but what faithfulness looks like in the midst of upheaval. I’m increasingly aware of the change that is always—change of perspectives, experiences, and realities. 

And always is a kind of faith—the knowing that even as things change, we are held. Always, there will be more than we can see at this moment. Always, there will be grace. Always, there will be gifts of beauty. 

This is the point in the essay where I feel a pressure to make a sharp turn toward assurance of the sturdiness and goodness of God. And while I believe in and have experienced those attributes, that turn often comes too fast and feels too simplistic. 

Faith is built by pain, on loss, on doubt. Faith is an always that still falters. 

Frederick Buecnher wrote, “Faith is better understood as a verb than as a noun, as a process than as a possession. It is on-again-off-again rather than once-and-for-all. Faith is not being sure where you’re going, but going anyway. A journey without maps. Paul Tillich said that doubt isn’t the opposite of faith; it is an element of faith.”

In the loss, we cling to the always as it slips away. We stay attentive to the gifts of today,  but still feel the tear of loss. We are held by the deepest roots that remain. 

slides photo by Alexander Andrews on Unsplash
downed trees photo by Clay Banks on Unsplash