Note To Myself

In the movie, the rich guy in the fancy car says to his handheld recorder, “Note to myself” which is later transcribed by his secretary and placed on his desk.

“Can’t forget that,” “Great quote,” “Gotta save this one.” Where do I put wanna-be-remembered-words except in notes? “I can use that in a sermon one day,” I say to myself as I write a note to myself and place it where myself can find it on that future day if I remember that I wrote that note to myself to “remember.” (You gotta be over sixty-years-old to appreciate that sentence.)

Alzheimer’s or just age as this saving began years ago and now I have an accumulation of notes either from my thoughts or thoughts of others that I feel were worth preserving and to be used some unknown day but surely worth saving and retrieved when the time is ripe. A friend at his exit door has a note saying, “Got lunch?” I’m not that bad, you gotta eat.

The ripe time? I’m glad I note my thoughts or the thoughts of others and store them, but it’s the remembering what I wrote that escapes me.

It’s a small pile that’s curling at the edges. Neatly stack but still qualifies as a pile of “wanting-to-be-remembered-things-to-be-used-at-some-future-unnamed-time.” When my apartment is cleaned after my death, I hope someone will sift through my small note stack instead of just throwing them out. (I thought they were important or I would not have made note of them.)

When a new sermon stares before me on a blank page I don’t go through those saved notes, I look at the page and fill it with it warm thoughts and remembrances of someone who’s in a better place. (There’s someplace better than Wisconsin on a February’s night?!)

The mount grows taller the older I get but I rarely look at them. I remembered to write them down so I would not forget what they touched or provoked in me

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the first time. They’re neatly stacked to my left and I see them now. Without the notes, the blank page becomes full of faithful information and faith-filled references. I can’t remember what I saved but I guess I saved what I remember.

If I flip through those notes now I suspect I’d find that what I filled those blank pages with is pretty close to those notes. Isn’t it why I saved those “wanting-to-be-remembered-thoughts” in the first place?

 

Here are some of those notes:

TV’s “Dr. House,” “Is it that I think so little of you or so highly of myself?”

Fran Leibowitz, “The world went into television and television became the world.”

Benjamin Button, “People we remember the least, make the greatest impression on us.”

Unknown, “In a public place it’s a restroom, in your home, it’s a bathroom.”

Louis C.K., “You’re angry because an invention you didn’t know existed thirty seconds ago doesn’t work!” (Early days of airplane WiFi)

Archbishop Liestski, “Defined by our differences, polarized by our politics.”

Liam Neeson character, “Give me an hour, I’m good; give me a week, I’m great; give me six months, I’m unbeatable.”

Unknown, “I’m a victim and beneficiary of my own reputation.”

My sermon preparation: First draft is sarcastic, the second version is cynical and the final version is touchy-feely.

Carl Jung, “What’s missing in you has to be seen in another person,” and, “I thought marriage was a solution to my mystery; then I found out that I’m the mystery.”

and finally

Unknown, “Don’t leap, lean.”

Wouldn’t you save those?