I was sitting in an armchair in the living room of the Treehouse, Connor sprawled on the sectional with his laptop. We've been calling it "Deagle We Work" lately since all three of us are home so much — my son Connor doing job applications in the office, my daughter Kendall doing her internship at the kitchen table, me in these chairs that used to be decorative but now get daily use.
I was reading Waiting for the Last Bus by Richard Holloway, a 90-year-old Scottish bishop that I picked up randomly at the Piccadilly Circus Waterstones. I was trying to wrap my mind around Holloway’s explanation of “remembrance”, a concept borrowed from his Christian faith. He explains the phrase used during the communion ritual — “do this in remembrance of me” — as a way to bring Christ into the faithfuls’ lives today. To make his teachings, his ethos, his guiding light part of their daily lives.
But Holloway argues we can apply the same principle to our lost loved ones. Intriguing…
I looked up from my book as Connor started talking about the research he’s been doing into the consulting industry. (My beloved son is a verbal processor. We have covered a lot of ground this summer!)
"I think it might match what I’m good at," he said.
I blinked. Connor, considering consulting? That was his dad’s profession. The career that consumed and fulfilled Mike in equal measure.
Then it all clicked into place. Holloway’s point is that we can do more than look back at the memories of someone we’ve lost; we can bring the person forward into our life today. So their influence is present again, not merely living in the rearview mirror.
I looked at Connor, still talking through his thoughts about consulting. Holy moly, that's exactly what was happening right now.
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Every griever knows the terrible math of time. Each second that ticks by pulls you further from that last breath or that final conversation. You're left with two dismal choices: cling to fading memories, or "move on" and risk leaving your loved one behind.
I spent nine years frustrated by those options, knowing in my bones there was more to it. So I read stacks of books about both remembering and forgetting. They were all highlighted and sticky-noted in my vain attempt to understand the interplay between loss and memory and I’m not sure what to call it… spirit, perhaps? Because there were moments that — I can’t say it any less woowoo-y — just vibrated with the essence of Mike. Let’s be clear, his ghost wasn’t visiting me. But it felt like he was still somehow exerting a gravitational pull on tangible reality, though he no longer existed within it.
Holloway, God bless him, helped me put words to what I was feeling. It was not memory. It was this long-lost word that me and my autocorrect are still getting the hang of: remembrance.
According to Holloway, memory is like flipping through a photo album — oh look, there's Mike in his consulting days, briefcase in hand or on another conference call.
But remembrance isn’t looking in the rearview mirror at all. It’s bringing someone’s essence into the present moment. It’s Mike's professional world becoming a living resource for Connor today. It's me setting up conversations between Connor and people who worked with Mike a decade ago. It's realizing Mike the consultant isn’t trapped in amber — his expertise, his network, his way of seeing problems are still very much alive, and able to support Connor's present journey.
I’m am beyond thrilled for Connor to learn about a side of Mike he was too young to understand before his dad passed. And who knows, maybe Connor’s first job post-college will be thanks to his dad.
We're making new stories with Mike. Not just preserving old ones.
Looking back, the Deagle clan has been practicing remembrance for years without knowing what to call it.
Mike's mom died four years before I met him, so I never knew Mary Ann personally. But she lived with us anyway as Saint Mary Ann (because once you die, you can’t do anything wrong, obviously). We made pancakes with her whisk, stored treasures in her mahogany roll-top desk. When Mike would tell some less-than-saintly story about her — like the time she got so mad at him and his brother that she threw a paint bucket at them — we'd smile knowingly, “That’s Saint Mary Ann!"
She became this living force in our family, making us breakfast and making us giggle. Mary Ann shaped how we talk, how we laugh, how we forgive each other's human moments.
That's how remembrance works. It weaves your lost loved ones into the fabric of your daily life in ways both profound and playful.
Connor brings me cardinals now, little crystal ones from gift shops whenever he travels. The proud, bright birds have become a symbol of Mike for me; every time I see the real ones in our yard, I get an infusion of Mike's energy. His boldness. His beauty. His way of taking up space in the world.
So when Connor hands me another delicate figurine, it isn’t just a reminder of Mike. It’s a moment when Connor and I connect over our shared love for him; Mike's energy is flowing between us in the present.
And this final example might be small, but I love it.
When I travel, I still use Mike's hotel rewards.
Almost ten years later, his platinum status puts me up in nice rooms with good views. There's something about checking in under his name that feels like he's still taking care of me.
We don't have to choose between healing and honoring. We don't have to cling to memories that can't help but fade.
Our loved ones can still be part of our lives. Not as ghosts from the past, but as living forces in our present.
The consulting job conversations happening in the Treehouse living room prove it — the network and reputation that Mike built are shaping Connor’s future.
Mike isn't just a memory I'm trying to preserve. He's still here.
In remembrance,
Sue
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