Glen Campbell, Lost Memories, and God's Promises

There is a song, a Glen Campbell song, that haunts those who stop and really listen to what the old Rhinestone Cowboy laments as he sings, “I’m not gonna miss you.”  Thanks, Glen, for the downloaded warning that all I am to you is $2.99 and nothing more.

Of course, he’s not really singing to me. He’s singing a poem to his family and loved ones, a rhythmic, sad melody of anti-hubris. It is not filled with the arrogance of a fading super-star, the pride of one of the greatest guitar players of any genre or any time, or the musician who taught us the geographical location of places like Galveston, Wichita, and Arkansas.

It’s the song of a man who has fought Alzheimers, trying to slow its indeterminate, yet indefatigable, destruction of memories, of stories, of people, of lyrics both recorded and imagined but never written, of hugs shared, and of – well, of everything. He fought, but Alzheimers won, in the end. It always wins. The refrain, simple, haunts the listener: these memories, these people, these faces, these crowds, these recording booths - I’m not gonna miss you.

I think of this song as I visit my shut-ins, children of God, mostly not-gifted with a poet’s talent for a turned phrase, or the quick-fingered picker’s ability to rip “The William Tell Overture” (the Lone Ranger theme music) on a 12-string, or being known by four decades of the “who’s who” of the Grand Ol’ Opry. I think about the song when the lost, wondering and wandering Christian can’t gather a thought that blows gentle on the mind. I think about it when they don’t recognize me, or my voice, or the words I speak, or the Word who first spoke them. Do they know to miss me, or their parents, or their kids, or their nephews and nieces? What about Jesus?

I feel that there’s a certain bliss in the song, his admitting freely in selfish abandon that he’ll never know his family’s pain. Hooray for him. But, I’m left wondering, was there a time in his last years, his last months, when clarity broke through, when the pain was his, when the sadness cut to the heart, when his own empathy overwhelmed the damned brain-eating disease and his eyes saw and his thoughts recognized and he cognizantly knew, somehow, the loss and pain they suffered, that showed through the heartache expressed in their face?  But, as the illness ruind the memory like the Romans salting their path across the Middle East or Sherman burning his way across Georgia, all memories, even the flickering moment, is lost – gone forever.

There was Marsha, who constantly struggled with the guilt of some secret sin. She couldn’t remember it, exactly, only that she did something terrible. Damn the illness that let her remember that, but not the mercy of God in Christ Jesus! Damn the disease that rips her Baptism from her memory but not the accursed action of a fateful day. Damn to eternal hell the illness that lets her remember what she did but not what Jesus did for her at the cross, or that John 3:16 is more than an end-zone sign, or that there is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.

There’s Harry who could remember only that the Lord’s Supper is “good stuff” but not why, or what is so good about it. There he was, watching me like a cat watching a laser’s red dot skirt across the floor, expectantly, and when I would bob my head and say, “Amen,” he would lend his own, “Aaaaaaaa-men,” stretching it out a full three-count, as if keeping time to his favorite polka. And then there was Joy – what an apt name for this saint! – who could only smile while her eyes spoke volumes, trying to communicate what her mouth held in silence. Her lips, tongue, and jaw would move, trying to verbally jump-start a memory into locomotion like her husband’s old ’53 Chevrolet, but without benefit of a hillside, a clutch, and four-on-the-floor she was unsuccessful.

Glen sang their song. He sang it for them, even as his own memory slowly dissolved. Watch the video of his last recording session. You can see his eyes reading the ink blots on the page, the mind translating into vocables and pitches, the vocal chords humming and vibrating as they had done for decades even as his mouth shaped and formed the sounds into words, all done almost in an automatic way. It’s where he belonged, it seemed, as natural as a black shirt on Johnny Cash’s back and a bandanna on Willie’s forehead.

But, in the end, he didn’t miss it at all.

 The child of God has this comfort: you will never hear this song sung in the resurrection. Your Lord will never say how much He misses you. After all, He rescued you, sought you out when you were hopelessly lost and trapped. He redeemed you, paying the ransom price with His own blood and suffering. You will never be an anonymous face, the unknown entity to Him. He has called you by name. You are His. God will not now, or ever, say, “I don’t know you.” He will always, now and into eternity, say, “You look exactly like my Son, My only Son with whom I am well pleased. Come: enter into my presence.” He will never forget you because nothing – nothing! – can separate you from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

So, I go Marsha, and I remind her – again! – that her sins are forgiven by Jesus and God loves her as His own. When she asks me – again! – if that’s true, I say, “Yes - He promised.”  I tell Harry that the good stuff is Jesus’ own body and blood. He says, “Yep! He’s here with us!” and I say, “Yes he is, so take and eat; take and drink.” He always says, “Thank you Jesus for visiting me today.” Did he mean me or did he really mean Jesus? He adds his, “Aaaaaaa-men.” And Joy simply smiles at receiving the peace of God, which passes all human understanding, and keeps her heart and mind – yes, even hers – through faith in Christ Jesus.

And God?

He’s not gonna forget any of them.