A Lenten Message: Memory, Tradition, and the Things That Endure

I visited the grave of my great-grandfather in Pennsylvania last summer. I had only been there once before, as a child on a trip with my family, and I realized how little I knew about him. He immigrated to the United States with nothing, worked in a railroad foundry, and died at a very early age during the influenza epidemic. That is nearly all I know. When I arrived at the gravesite, I found a stone cross—once the top of his headstone—lying broken on the ground. It struck me then how fragile memory is, how easily the markers of a life can be worn away or broken over time. After my great-grandfather's death, the family moved to New York where my grandfather grew up. Following in his father’s footsteps, he worked for the railroad, but while he lived longer than his father, his life was still cut short at a relatively young age. I know some things about him—his love of family, of God, of bowling—but the stories are fragmented, incomplete. He died just two weeks after I was born, so I...