How do you remember a space?

One that was a port in the storm after a season with tsunami, hurricane, tornado, and many prayerful nights.

A building where the windows did not protect from the cold, but sunlight shined through the stained glass.  Where backyard rocks and weeds could not be tamed, or separated from the forest beyond.  Where pine needles buried into carpets from the trees outside.  Where each doorway, each stairwell, each entrance led to a different purpose.

What will last longer: the footprints we made in the carpet or the dust from basement boxes on our fingertips?

How do you remember a space?

And what pieces should you remember, if you can?

The weekly routine of two hours in quiet effort, prepping music, folding papers, or writing others.  The heated discussion on who is responsible to lead the racial change in our city.  The toddler gripping one finger to go up and down the stairs.  The dancing campers on stage, delighting in videos on the screen.  The tears spilt on a couch cushion after a painful message is read.  The long Lego sessions with kids whose hands and minds could create beyond my imagination.

If anything were released, what would be lost in the process?

How do you remember a space?

And how do you etch an impact on a space?  Can you leave a legacy on a building?  Or is it only on the people who were once there?  Without a knife to carve words into the floorboards, will anyone know we were there?

We cannot create someone else’s memory.  We can only create an opportunity.  We can seek to make a difference and believe that it will matter, even if our names are faded by time.  A name etched into a heart cannot be read but it can be felt.

I had no switchblade to etch into the wood, and no truck to cart away the podium, so I took a tea cup from the wall that I had noticed a few years before.  I have no idea who placed it in this space.  Its small size and retro dyes will help me remember those things I should.

How should you remember a space?