Sometimes I’ll be reminded of Claremont; a book, a phrase, someone who was there with me that I encounter again after a long time. I’ll remember walking through the Biblical Gardens at the School of Theology, walking the Claremont college campuses and breathing in the warm desert breeze. I’ll remember watching my children playing in the runs and crevices of our ancient apartment complex. I’ll remember meeting with friends in the shadow of the campus chapel to talk faith and grace and politics. Everything felt new then, new and possible. Everything was possibility and I drank it all in like I was constantly dying of thirst. We lived inside dreams and purpose and hope. Every day was forever.
Until it wasn’t. Of course. Maybe we need that kind of temporal deception, that feeling of lasting-forever to help us go on in the midst of constant materialist reminders that nothing lasts except for the sure repetition of finding new ways to die. I remember all these things, but only as ghosts that hide in the corners of my vision, never coming into focus. Even a glass, darkly, is a grace. But not remembering would be good, too.