Friends,

Memory is objectively unreliable. Studies have consistently found that details from our memories are often fabrications. This has huge implications for eyewitness accounts in criminal trials and for loved ones arguing over the circumstances surrounding hurt feelings. It also has massive implications for how stories work. Stories carry all sorts of power in creating a shared cultural identity and forming our own identities. For example, as Americans, we share the narrative of the Revolution as part of our shared identity. As Christians, we share the narrative of the cross as the cornerstone of our shared faith identity. As an individual, I am composed of these stories, countless stories shared with family, friends, and even enemies, as well as many stories known only to me. Our identities are composed of stories; our stories are composed of memories, and our memories are unreliable. This can feel unsettling.

I bring up my time as an EMT often, but not nearly as often as I once did, and definitely not in as great of detail. I have noticed a character trait in public health educators that appears to be universal. It does not seem to affect their efficacy one way or another, but whether you are getting your EMT license or taking a CPR recertification class, your teacher will likely have this trait. They all seem to incorporate stories into the training, making it feel as if they are processing the trauma of the job while they teach you. In the context of a learning setting, sometimes it is helpful, sometimes it is not, but it is clear they have something to share. I wonder how reliable their memory is around these stories, and I wonder how much it matters. What is the purpose of the story? To be known? Is this their confession? Is this how they make meaning of a chaotic and terrifying moment?

I have only shared this memory with two other people, and it is a vivid memory that still haunts me. My siblings and I hiked a huge chunk of the Appalachian Trail when I was 22, and he was 18. Being on the trail is a vulnerable thing, and we were perpetually broke, which made us feel even more vulnerable. You had to take rides and charity where you could. At the base of Fontana Dam, a man offered us a ride in a windowless white van, and it was clear he meant to do harm to others in the van. We kept our mouths shut because we didn’t want to get hurt either, and afterwards we told ourselves stories about how it was weird but ok. For months, I was plagued with guilt for not reporting the creepy man, and finally reached out to my brother to see how he remembered the story.

It never happened. He was emphatic, and he reminded me of what actually happened at Fontana Dam, which was remarkably unremarkable. Somehow both of these stories exist in my memory at the same time, and both cannot be true. Now I know which one is true, but both of them still exist in my brain, feeling equally real. Though I know the one with the man in the van is a made-up memory (from where, I don’t know), I still feel guilt for not acting, and I feel the need to repent. Somehow this fabrication of my subconscious has weaseled itself into my identity.

After every call on our ambulance, we would have to fill out a report. As the junior person on the crew, I rarely had to do these, but on the really hard calls where people were gravely injured or died, we would often all have to share our accounts of what happened. These sometimes inflated my confidence when others would commend me for doing something I didn’t think much about. Other times, when I felt I did something remarkable, it went unnoticed, or it simply wasn’t seen as anything special. This exercise helped create a shared narrative of what exactly happened on the call. I may or may not have left feeling better about myself, but I had a better idea of what actually happened in the chaos of the emergency. This refining of reality then got put into the ol’ brain vault to be added to the narrative of my identity.

Whether it’s dealing with a memory that is real or imagined, it is helpful to talk things over with the people who were there with you. What happens when you can’t? Some of my most intense and dramatic experiences happened in extremely private environments as a hospital chaplain or as a priest, or are so far removed that I no longer know the people who were involved. I hope to always take advantage of situations when I have the extreme privilege to discuss memories that will stick with me. As for the ones that I carry alone? I must deal with them as well. There is no one to call for clarification and for absolution. There is no arbiter of reality that I call up and have a chat with. Instead, we live in a faith that requires repentance and redemption.

Creating a collective sense of guilt for the sake of making people feel guilty is entirely unhelpful. However, acknowledging the imperfection of our memory, and therefore of our identity, means that being a bit suspicious of our perceived purity and righteousness is a good place to start. The stories that compose our individual identity are not much different than the stories that make our collective identity. Memories can be manipulated and fabricated, and without embracing that nagging notion that something is wrong, they will always default to turning the storytellers into the hero. The perpetrators of every major societal sin considered themselves to be the good guys.

Carefully cultivate the stories that make up you, because stories carry tremendous power. The enemy of virtue and righteousness is cultivating a story that ensures we are always virtuous and righteous. We do not leave this world unscathed, and the paramedics teaching CPR classes know this well; their stories pour out while they teach. They are all true, but some may be less factual than presented. Meeting Christ in these stories is an exercise of laying our burdens on him, not pretending that we are unburdened. If we are to reach the broken parts of the world, we must be broken too, and we are only made whole in our Savior.

Blessings,

Nick