“Was it Ross?”
“No that’s not right,” he shook his head.
“Richard?”
“Maybe we ought to take some of that stuff they advertise on T.V.,” my husband mused when both of us together couldn’t come up with the name which was “on the tip of our tongues.”
“What stuff?” I asked.
“Oh, you know those natural pills that make you skinny as a pencil and sharp as a tack.”
Skinny as a pencil, sharp as a tack.
It had me thinking about the last time I felt either skinny or sharp, but I couldn’t remember it.
That niggling elusive name neither of us could spit out bugged me. Neither skinny nor sharp, we walked together into the health clinic. Time had rolled around again for my husband’s yearly medicare evaluation.
We settled into the little sterile examining room.
“Don’t take the memory assessment,” I hissed, that misplaced name still batted against my brain cage.
A young-enough-to-be-a-granddaughter-doctor greeted us and then she sat down in front of her important spot at the computer where she caught up on my husband from a year ago. It was likely noted in his last exam that he had recalled only two of the three memory test words.
“Two out of three’s not bad,” she’d said.
Even though we’d laughed about it then, this time around we’d both agreed to pass on the evaluation offer, kind though I’m sure it was meant to be, and just move on.
“So would you be willing to take the little memory assessment?” she asked. Here’s the part where he was supposed to reply in the negative.
“Sure,” he answered.
I jerked my head up and glared at him. Failed already.
“I’ll just give you three words, and later in the exam, I’ll ask you what they were,” the doctor said.
Ok. It sounded easy enough.
“Kitchen. Baby. Village.”
Kitchen, baby, village, my mind frantically whispered. The three words bounced against its inside walls like thrown dice. Kitchen, baby, village, kitchen, baby, village.
“Do you feel safe in your environment?”
Kitchen, baby, village.
“Let’s talk about exercise,” she invited.
Kitchen, baby, village.
“Are you ever short of breath?”
Kitchen, baby, village.
“How’s your hearing?”
“Huh?” he asked with a grin.
I glared harder and willed him not to forget the kitchen with a baby inside the village. His eyes twinkled. He smiled at me, at the seriousness with which I obviously tried to use telepathy. Three fingers tapped against my thigh. I folded my hands on my lap and lifted three fingers with a little wave.
The doctor covered eyesight, cholesterol, basic aches and pains, and then out of the blue asked, “Do you still remember those three words?”
I held my breath. This was where last year he burst into laughter and pulled out two.
“In the village there are babies in the kitchen,” my husband replied confidently.
The older I get, the more grateful I’ve become that God’s memory is different than ours.
- He chooses to forget our sins, (Isaiah 43:25; Jeremiah 31:34; Ps. 103:12, Hebrews 8:12), yet, He never forgets us (Isaiah 49:15-16, Isaiah 44:21).
- He remembers our needs, (Luke 12:6), and He doesn’t forget that we are weak and made of dust (Psalm 103:14).
- He never forgets His promises, (Romans 4:21; Hebrews 10:23) and He remembers our labors of love (Hebrews 6:10).
I am grateful that God has, in every way, perfect memory.
My husband and I left the doctor’s office, released to return the next year, and after rehashing where we parked the car, we headed in that direction.
Looking at me across the roof of the navy Mazda, he exclaimed, “Russell!”
We slid into our seats, happy the forgotten name had popped out during the day and not in the middle of the night … or during the doctor’s assessment.
As we buckled up, we realized we would likely never be able to erase the three unforgettable words. Their cycle etched an unforgettable track in our brains. We might possibly remember them forever. We sat there for a while just thinking about the phenomena of memory and older age.
“Hey, Baby,” I finally said, “It’s lunchtime. Let’s find a kitchen in this village.”
Who needs skinny as a pencil and sharp as a tack when you’ve got each other.
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