I had it. Oh, I had it.
The greatest idea in the history of these Ponderings. Pulitzerworthy. Heavensanctioned. The kind of idea that makes you sit up straighter in your car at the Walgreens red light and think, “Well now… that’s good.”
I remember exactly where I was when it arrived. I was headed to Tractor Supply to look at things I will never use in my life. I call this “expanding my horizons,” though my horizons remain suspiciously unchanged. Still, there I sat—traffic creeping, inspiration soaring. The idea was brilliant. It was illuminating. It was humorous. It was under six hundred words. It was perfect.
And then a voice in my head whispered, “This one is unforgettable. No need to write it down.”
Never trust that voice. That voice lies. That voice is the same one that says, “You don’t need a grocery list,” and “You’ll remember where you parked,” and “You can fix that without reading the instructions.”
The truth is: I have absolutely no idea what the idea was. None. I don’t know if it was about faith or farming or ferrets. I don’t know if it was animal, mineral, or vegetable. It has vanished. Gone. Evaporated. Or worse—someone else posted it on social media this morning and is now being hailed as a genius. If you read something brilliant, illuminating, and humorous today, it was probably mine.
I do remember this much: it had something to do with a Yiddish proverb I’m using in a sermon later this month. It goes like this: “If one man calls you an ass, pay him no mind. If two men call you an ass—go buy a saddle.” I thought it was brilliant, illuminating, and humorous. I just forgot what else went with it.
Do you forget? Because I do. More and more. As I grow more “mature” (which is the polite churchnewsletter way of saying “things are starting to creak”), I’ve noticed my mind isn’t quite as quick as it once was. I forget names. I forget appointments. I forget why I walked into the kitchen. I even forgot to read an online article about remembering not to forget.
But here’s the tender truth tucked inside all this forgetfulness:
God remembers you. Every bit of you. Not the polished version you wish you were—you. He remembers you with love, with delight, with the kind of attention usually reserved for an only child. And while God remembers you, He chooses to forget something else entirely:
Your sins. When you confess them, He doesn’t file them, store them, or keep them in a drawer labeled “For Later Use.” He forgets them. Completely. Eternally. Joyfully. So if God has forgotten your sins, why are you still lugging them around like a saddle you never needed to buy?
Maybe the real brilliance—the idea I lost somewhere between Walgreens and Tractor Supply—is simply this:
Your memory may fail you, but God’s mercy never does. And that’s something worth remembering.