On the day the tomatoes ripened in late August, Dad woke us up as the sun rose. Over 200 pounds of produce were waiting to be washed in saltwater before being quartered and boiled down in stock pots big enough to hold my little brother. We spent the morning cutting tomatoes, boiling them, and cranking them through the food mill. Each tomato went through three times before moving to pots on the stove, where the sauce would cook for hours. Finally, we would ladle the finished product into some 120-quart jars and a piece of homegrown basil (my favorite job) before sealing them. Deep into our snow-covered winters in upstate New York, I looked forward to the smell of our summer sauce simmering on the stove, served with other carefully stored delicacies from our garden. I would remember those bright summer mornings in the middle of the winter. The work we did to preserve our harvest would sustain us for the year ahead.
Unfortunately, I did not feel like I had much to sustain me as I began in 2020. I quit my job in January that gave my life significant meaning and purpose. It was a job that kept me busy, scheduled, goal-oriented. Without it, I felt worthless, directionless, and bored.
I found it hard to admit I was struggling. I spent entire afternoons scrolling through Facebook, intentionally neglected my prayer life, and I didn’t call my Spiritual Director. I couldn’t admit that life sucked, no motivation for the most mundane tasks, and avoided my friends’ texts and phone calls. That I even ignored the puppy when she wanted to lick my face. To complain out loud felt unappreciative of my health, financial stability, and supportive husband. So instead, I let those feelings ferment for months.
At some point during April, in the heart of this unemployed, quarantined depression, I finally found myself on the phone with a friend. Instead of talking about what was going poorly in my life, she reminisced about our trip last October to California. She recalled the most incredible sushi. The hike past the rattlesnake skin to see the sunrise. The laughter after I accidentally spit in her eye. The drive to the beach. Her bad sense of direction. I found myself laughing as memories piled on top of each other. We savored these moments together. I left the conversation with a deep sense of joy-filled nostalgia.
Soon after, I found myself praying along to one of Fr. Tri’s guided meditations. As I listened to the instrumental music in the background, I was surprised it brought me back to one of our Idaho Caritas retreats. During this particular closing Mass, just as Fr. Tri and Fr. Radmar lifted up the Eucharist before the Great Amen, a great rush of wind blew hundreds of bright red leaves past the windows behind them. Overcome with gratitude as I transported, goosebumps, and all, to that intense moment.
Later, I received a package from my parents. Garlic and peppers from their garden. Seeds that would bear fruit in my garden this year, three thousand miles away.
Though I didn’t realize this at the moment, the fact that I remembered these things (California, Caritas, my parents’ garden) awakened life in me. A life that sustained me, much like my Dad’s tomato sauce, past the official growing season.
Fall is the time of year where humans have gathered the last bits of produce from gardens and flower beds before the setting in of the frost for thousands of years. It has also been a time to gather memories to sustain us for the cold, dark months ahead. This past year, what I gathered in the fall of 2019 ended up supporting me through the uncertainty of 2020, even if it took some time for me to realize those memories were there. This year, I’m becoming more intentional about what stocks my pantry. Sure, I’m making jams and hanging my hot peppers to dry, but I’m also gathering my memories of consolation.
My shelves are filling up with moments: from the hike to the mountain lake with my husband, the day my puppy learned how to walk on a leash, stepping out of my comfort zone to introduce myself to my weekly cashier at the grocery store, the best chicken I ever made, making a “hug suit” out of heavy plastic so I could (finally) hug my best friend, playing Pictionary over Zoom, the drive-by birthday parties, backyard fires, watching the sunrise on Easter Sunday, the “rap” my friends’ kid performed for us about our puppy...the list goes on.
Amid this messy, lonely, and depressing unknown, I have witnessed the powerful act of memory. This nostalgic harvest of moments has awakened me to God’s presence. I know these months ahead will provide their challenges, but I’m getting ready. My memory harvest is being canned and pickled, frozen, and dried so I can enjoy it when I need it most.
Canning tomato sauce was hard, intentional work. The same is for preserving the joyful memories from a strange and challenging year. But it is here, in this remembering, where God resides. The whole of our Catholic life is wrapped in powerful remembrance. Remembering that makes real the presence of Christ. Remembering that makes real the presence of Christ in me. It is not lost on me that Christ uses food as the vehicle for our most profound memory of faith.
Before this year, I rarely took the time to sit with my memories. I didn’t need them as much as I do now. But I hope that even after things return to some sense of normalcy, I will continue to walk into the pantry from time to time and grab a jar of tomato sauce.
Is there a song that transports you to a memory that awakens life? Treat yourself to a walk or some time outside as you listen. Recall those moments with immense detail. Call your friend or family member who was there with you. Visit that place if possible. Eat that food again, play that game, watch that movie. If it is helpful for you, spend time with this reflective playlist that sparked memories for me during the Guided Meditation.
Teresa Nygard