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 have no personal recollections of him, only the stories others have told me. I knew my father well, of course, but how much will all of his grandchildren remember him? With each generation, knowledge fades. The details blur. The names, places, and experiences begin to slip away.

Standing there, looking at the fallen cross, I thought about how quickly time erases the details of a life. The names and dates carved into stone are barely enough to hold onto. And yet, some stories endure—because we choose to tell them and pass them down.

This idea of remembrance is not only personal but also universal. Throughout history, people have sought ways to ensure that meaning is not lost to time. One such example in my profession is its founder - George Barton, who was treated by Elwood Worcester of the Emmanuel Movement. Barton was deeply influenced by the biblical verse, Isaiah 61:3: "To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that he might be glorified." Worcester encouraged Barton to see his own struggles not as a source of despair but as an opportunity to rebuild, to create something meaningful from what was lost.

As I discussed in a previous blog post, that is the lesson of Lent as well. The tradition of ashes in Lent serves as a reminder that we are dust, and to dust we shall return. It is a moment of humility, of recognizing how fleeting life is, but also how memory and meaning can rise from what is lost. But ashes are impermanent. What happens when all traces disappear—when there is no one left to remember, no physical marker to tell the story? If history has taught us anything, it’s that memory is delicate—whether etched in stone, written in books, or stored in the digital cloud.

Entire civilizations have lost their histories—languages vanished, traditions faded, and knowledge was reduced to dust. The Library of Alexandria, once a vast repository of human understanding, was destroyed, wiping out untold volumes of accumulated wisdom. The Minoan civilization left behind a language we can no longer read, its meaning forever lost. 

Now, in an age where so much of our history is digital, we face a different kind of vulnerability. Unlike stone carvings or ancient texts, digital records exist only as long as technology sustains them. A single EMP, a lost password, or a corrupted file could erase entire histories in an instant, just as surely as fire, war, or decay erased the knowledge of the past. We assume we are better at preserving history, but are we?

What truly stands the test of time? This isn’t just a philosophical or historical reflection—it has real, personal consequences. It matters for our profession as well. Occupational therapy is rooted in meaning, in the connection between past and present, between action and identity. Our patients are often navigating loss—of function, of identity, of the ability to engage in meaningful occupations.

Memory is central to human occupation. The objects people hold onto—their routines, their traditions, the things that make up their identity—are all anchors in time. When memory fades, whether through brain injury, dementia, or the passage of time, people lose more than just recollection. They lose a part of themselves. Occupational therapy helps people reconnect—to their histories, their skills, their sense of purpose. In working with patients, we are often engaging in the act of restoring narrative, reinforcing memory, helping them hold onto what matters. This was the essence of Florence Clark's Slagle lecture.

So, the question of what we remember and what we lose is not abstract. It is central to what we do.

We hold onto objects, traditions, and stories because they anchor us to something greater than ourselves. Objects help us recall what might otherwise fade, traditions reinforce meaning across generations, and the Gospel is not merely a story from the past—it is a truth that is continually lived and experienced. As Tevye says in Fiddler on the Roof, 'Because of our traditions, we've kept our balance for many, many years…'

Tradition is more than just routine; it is how we fight against forgetting. Jewish traditions ensure cultural and religious continuity, just as Christian observances like Lent call believers to remember, reflect, and renew their connection to faith. Lent serves as a way to preserve faith, deepen reflection, and pass down essential truths. Both remind us that what we choose to hold onto shapes not just our past, but also our future. In all of these—objects, rituals, faith—we find ways to resist forgetting, to hold onto what matters.

Lent calls us to remembrance and reflection—to be intentional about what we preserve and what we allow to fade. While we are dust, and to dust we shall return, we are also called to renewal—to embrace the promise of transformation and restoration (Isaiah 61:3). This duality reminds us of both our mortality and the enduring potential for renewal.

Most of history fades, but Lent reminds us that remembrance is an act of will—what we preserve, repeat, and pass down is what endures.