A Late-Night Deposit Into the DadCloud
At 11:30 last night, Brighton came downstairs and walked into our bedroom. Karen and I are night owls. Well, not really. We just have so much going on that it can be hard to actually go to bed. We were settling down for the night and talking, and I had just finished reading my Bible when Brighton appeared.
“Hey, I need you to remind me to throw away those bedsheets I have. They are too hard to put on the bed. Thanks. Good night. Love you.”
And then he turned around and went back upstairs. That was it. No explanation for why this thought had suddenly become important at 11:30 at night. No reminder set on his phone. No note to himself. He just deposited the information into DadCloud and went to bed.
For the record, there’s nothing particularly wrong with the sheets other than they’re old and his mattress is a little too thick for them. They needed to be replaced. Apparently, at 11:30 p.m., Brighton decided this was now my problem to remember.
I looked over at Karen and said, “It’s like I’m the Oracle of the house. Y’all just tell me things to remember. I know what has been and what will be...evidently.”
She laughed because she knows it’s true. We both have jobs in this house, and remembering things is mine.
Welcome to the Mind Palace
I’ve always had a good memory. I don’t really know how else to explain it except that my brain feels organized. I call it my Mind Palace. Everything has a place, and I can usually recall things pretty well, especially visually. It’s almost like there’s a movie screen in my head. I can close my eyes and see memories, places and where things were.
A few days ago, Karen couldn’t find a book she needed for work. When she asked me about it, I told her, “I remember seeing that.” It had been days since I’d noticed it, but I could picture where I’d seen it. I went to that spot and found the book. Karen looked at me and said, “I don’t know how you do that.” I told her, “I don’t either.” That’s the truth.
I can also give my brain instructions before I go to sleep. If there’s something I need to remember the next morning, I’ll actually say it out loud. “Remember to do that tomorrow.” “Remember to call them.” “Remember Brighton’s sheets.” Most of the time, when I wake up, it’s one of the first things that comes to mind. Karen doesn’t even suggest that I make a note anymore. She has faith in the process.
It gets a little weirder. I’ve been known to tell myself what time I need to wake up. I’ll go to bed thinking, “Wake up at 6:30,” and somehow I’ll wake up pretty dang close to 6:30. I have no idea how that works either, and I’m not confident enough in the Mind Palace to throw away the alarm clock. I’m just saying it happens.
Apparently, the internal hard drive also has a clock.
The Family Hard Drive
There are limits to this superpower. Don’t give me twelve things to remember. That’s not happening. If we’re going on a trip, I can’t memorize a long list of things we need to take. I can, however, put all twelve things into a bag and tell myself to remember the bag. One file? Good. Twelve files? We’re going to need a folder.
I also rewrite the hard drive occasionally. If something doesn’t seem important anymore, I let it go. It doesn’t need to take up space. But my family has figured out what the hard drive is good at. Directions are stored there. So are travel times, practice locations, important dates, calendar events, things that happened years ago and where somebody left something three days ago.
Karen sometimes uses me like a stack of Post-it notes. She’ll tell me something she needs to remember, and apparently that’s enough. The kids do it too. They’ll ask, “Daddy, do you remember...?” Usually, I do.
And I love it. I’ve told Karen before that if my memory ever goes, I’m going to hate it. Remembering isn’t a burden to me. It’s part of how my brain works, but I’ve also realized it’s part of how I take care of my family.
Love Remembers the Little Things
The things I remember aren’t usually earth-shattering. Most mornings when Karen has somewhere to be, I remember to make her coffee. On cold mornings, I’ll go outside and start her car so it’s warm and make sure the windshield is clear.
Actually, here’s a free Maury cheat code: If you know there’s going to be frost, put a towel over your windshield the night before. Pull it off in the morning and you’ve got a clear windshield. You’re welcome.
I remember practices. I remember appointments. I remember how long it’ll take us to get somewhere. I remember family stories and traditions. None of those things are particularly impressive. They’re just little pieces of the lives of people I love, and I think that’s why I like remembering them.
My family trusts me. Karen has told me one of the reasons is because I’m consistent. If I say I’ll remember something, there’s a pretty good chance I will. I consider taking care of my family part of my responsibility as a husband and dad. Sometimes taking care of them means providing. Sometimes it means fixing something or listening. And apparently, sometimes it means remembering at 11:30 at night that my 18-year-old son has declared war on a set of fitted sheets.
Just Hand It Over
The more I thought about Brighton’s late-night visit, though, the more I realized there was something else about it that I liked. He wasn’t worried about remembering. He handed it to me. “Hey, I need you to remind me…” And then he went to bed. There was complete trust in that transaction. Dad has it. I’m going to sleep.
Sitting there after reading my Bible, it occurred to me that maybe Brighton understands something that I still struggle with when it comes to God. I give things to God all the time. Sometimes when I’m praying, I’ll physically hold out my hands. There’s nothing actually in them, of course. I do it because I need the visual reminder that I’m handing something over.
Maybe it’s a worry. Maybe it’s a problem, someone I love or something I can’t fix. Whatever it is, opening my hands is my way of saying, “Here, God. You carry this.”
Peter writes, “Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.” I love the reason we’re given. It’s not simply that God can handle what we can’t. It’s that He cares for us. God already knows what I’m carrying. Jesus said that God even knows the number of hairs on our heads. There isn’t a detail of my life that escapes Him, yet He still invites me to hand things over.
The problem is that I’m not always as good at the next part as Brighton was.
Go to Bed
Brighton gave me his problem and walked away. He didn’t come back five minutes later and ask, “Hey, Dad, you still remember the sheets?” He didn’t text me from upstairs to check on the sheet situation. He didn’t lie in bed wondering whether I could handle this enormous responsibility that had been entrusted to me. He handed it to Dad and went to sleep.
Maybe there’s something I need to learn from that. I spend a lot of my life carrying things for the people I love, and I’m glad to do it. It’s part of my job. But I don’t have to carry everything. There are things I can place into hands much stronger than mine and trust that He hasn’t forgotten.
I can tell God what’s on my heart. I can open my hands and give it to Him. Then, instead of picking it right back up again to make sure He’s handling it the way I think He should, maybe I need to do what Brighton did.
Go to bed.
For the record, I remembered the sheets. They’re gone, and new ones have already replaced them.
The Oracle remains undefeated.
Great word, Maury. And very relatable experience.