Frederick Buechner’s Room Called Remember

Every day I thank Anne Lamott for introducing me to Frederick Buechner.

Not as in, we were standing on a patio at a party and Anne Lamott and I are visiting right before Frederick Buechner walked up, which would be the ultimate gift of life, almost as good as surviving cancer or having smart, beautiful children or having amazing parents.

This would be a gift like someone driving up in a red convertible when all you wanted all your life was a red convertible, and handing over the keys and saying, “yes, it’s your’s, and yes, the taxes are paid for the next five years,” kind of gift.

If I could remember who introduced me to Anne Lamott, I’d thank them here as well. Her words have been the best sort of gift in my life for years.

As an aside, if you haven’t read Anne Lamott, start with Traveling Mercies or Operating Instructions.

Somewhere in a book or an article, Anne Lamott mentioned that Frederick Buechner was her favorite writer. So, because Anne Lamott is my favorite writer, I decided to pick up a bit of Frederick Buechner. Thank you, Anne Lamott.

I get it now.

Annie Dillard, no slacker when it comes to weilding words to change lives, says Buechner is “one of our finest writers.” He’s described as an American writer and theologian, the latter term being a word that might prompt some of you to move right on without reading another word. If you grew up in a Southern Baptist church like I did, the last thing you want on a Wednesday morning is to read about a theologian.

But this is a guy who writes with a mix of intellect and faith and doubt and wonder. He doesn’t preach, he ponders. He admits his human frailty and his fears and then he says something like “Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid.”

Or “You can kiss your family and friends goodbye and put miles between you, but at the same time you carry them in your heart, your mind, your stomach, because you do not just live in a world but a world lives in you.”

Those are words you want to have in your world.

But here’s what I really wanted to share with you today. I’ve been thinking a lot about memory. As my mom and dad age, I find myself wishing I had written down every word they ever said, every single story.

And then I think, wait, I need to be writing it all down as well. I might not be profound every minute of every day. I might not even be profound more than twice a year. But my memories are someday going to be important to my kids and grandkids and nieces and nephews.

And Frederick Buechner wrote the most beautiful piece about memory that I’ve found to date. Here is it, lifted right off the pages of The Remarkable Ordinary: How to Stop, Look and Listen to Life:

“I used to dream a lot about being in hotels, whatever that means. I had this wonderful room that I remembered less visually than about how good I felt in that room. It was just the right place for me. I felt at peace and happy. And then the dream went on and I had other adventures which I’ve forgotten. But I found myself back in the hotel again trying to find that room where I felt so good, so at peace, but unfortunately I didn’t remember what the room number was. It was a big hotel.

So I went down to the desk and somebody at the desk was there, and I said I was trying to find this room but I can’t remember the number. He said, “Oh, it’s very easy to get to that room any time that you want. It doesn’t have a number, it has a name. I said, “What is the name of that room?” He said, “The name of that room is Remember.”

I have a big meeting today, something for which I don’t feel particularly well prepared. There’s this real estate deal that’s threatening to go south, and because of that I have to have a hard conversation this afternoon with a client. I have to email someone who has a large role in an event coming up for the Foundation, and I know this person won’t email me back for days and I’ll have to be persistent and pushy and perhaps unpleasant to get results.

The day I’m facing doesn’t excite me.

Except that right here, right now, I’m able to retreat for a half hour into my Room Called Remember and look at old pictures and think about the blog post I want to write about my dad’s 89th birthday and about getting in my Uncle Milton’s boat on Ute Lake when I was seven, about the summer I spent in Farmington with my cousin Carla and about the family reunion we had in Red River in 1992 when Johanna was a toddler and my dad was the person she clung to all weekend (that’s the photo I chose to go with this post.)

Anytime I go there, to my Room Called Remember, I feel strengthened and bolstered by all the love and happiness I’ve had in my life. It’s enough to make the day doable.

Where do you go when you enter your Room Called Remember?