When there is no sexy cowboy riding into save us

I once performed a funeral for a woman that, rumor had it, nobody liked. I’d never met her, but her son, who was a member at a small church I preached at, asked me if I would do the service.

It’s hard enough to talk about someone you don’t know, let alone someone whose story doesn’t seem to have much light to bring to what can feel like the darkness of death.

Not knowing what else to do, I scoured different funeral liturgies, and a phrase in one leapt out to me: redeem our memories.

At the time, this seemed like as good an option as anything—I thought it might speak to those few who had gathered to say goodbye.

On a morning walk recently, the phrase returned to me, probably because I was getting hooked by old stories, their sharp barbs digging into my tender heart.

I didn’t want to erase them, because they are woven into the warp and woof of my being—a part of who I am, whether I like it or not—but I also didn’t want them to infect me.

That’s when Redeem our memories floated back into my brain.

Redeem means to free from what distresses, what harms.

To release from blame or debt.

To atone for.

To clear.

To change for the better.

Given that I read this phrase in a book of liturgy, it could be understood that the power of redemption comes from some outside force, be it God or some sexy cowboy riding in on a wild stallion to save us.

It can be a long wait, staring at the sizzling horizon, hoping for a savior.

It can also leave us feeling helpless, which might turn into hopeless and from there go headlong into bitter.

Someone fix this! we might cry.

But the more I looked at the definition of redeem, the more I realized all of those things fall squarely within our own power.

We do not have to wait.

Or hope.

We can act.

Here, now.

Where do we need to ask for forgiveness? To name our part?

What might it take to clear? (Time and silence are ever ready to help us heal.)

And maybe the biggest question we can ask, especially when our stories feel particularly sticky, is when do we need to stand firm and say No more?

When I teach peaceful warrior in yoga, I invite my students to take a wide and fierce stance with their legs, but their torsos arc up and away from the fight. “Sometimes,” I’ll say, “the bravest thing to do is to walk away.”

To move on.

To atone and clear.

This is not to deny what happened.

No, it often requires that we name things in plain and powerful ways.

This happened.

And oh my god, it hurt.

We also need to know this is not a call to look back at our lives only through cotton candy eyes—all spun-up, sweet air that has no substance.

Redeem our memories means letting go of living in the haze of has been.

It’s a call to walk fiercely into what will be.

To live light now, so that when our end comes, people can’t wait to tell our Good Story.