I live my life surrounded by teens and pre-teens.
A disproportionate number are female.
With all the estrogen in the air around me on a daily basis,
you’d think that I’d start absorbing some of it by osmosis.
Theoretically, that should make me hormonally-balanced, shouldn’t it?
If only life were fair.
Instead, here I am, forty-something and in the throes of menopause.
Or its more accurate title: brain-o-pause.
As the calendar pages turn, my brain cells seem to dissolve like so much Alka-Seltzer.
Brilliant blog posts, grocery lists, my reason for coming into a room—all of them fizzle away seconds after taking shape.
Break out the ginko biloba.
Or whatever that memory-enhancing stuff is.
I forget.
Is it just me, or are names less memorable than they used to be?
That’s why leagues of (old) genteel Southern women refer to everyone as “Honey”, “Sugar”, or “Darlin’.”
Y’all thought we were just nice.
No, Sugar, it’s just that we’ve forgotten who you are.
Was there a point to this post?
Now I remember—or I’m going with this one, whether it was my original intent or not.
Lately, I’ve been humming a song I picked up somewhere.
(And, no, Honey, I don’t remember where I heard it or who sings it.)
It goes like this:
“I am not forgotten;
I am not forgotten;
I am not forgotten;
He knows my name.”
Forgetful or just plain selfish, I’ve neglected some things I should have done over the past few months.
This little song reminds me that Christ is faithful even when I am faithless.
When I forget, He remembers,
and when I’m feeling frazzled and foggy,
He gently reminds me of my real identity.
Time to pause and remember that.
Be blessed,
Ginger
