The Heart Remembers What We Teach It to See
Today, my oldest left for college. I've known this day was coming for eighteen years. I still wasn't ready. I can still picture the little boy who layed in his bed one night with tears in his eyes, crying because he realized he was growing up: “My ‘little blanket’ doesn’t cover my legs anymore; I'm growing up, and I can't do anything about it. I don't want to have to leave home." I held him then, wishing I could somehow slow time.
Today, he drove away to become the man God is calling him to be. The past few days have held more emotion and pain than I expected, all stemming from joy and sadness. Both can exist concurrently in the same vacuum of life.
I've also learned something else: the heart remembers what we teach it to see.
Years ago, Ann Voskamp introduced me to the practice of counting gifts through One Thousand Gifts. I have filled my camera roll for years with ordinary graces: a sunrise over West Texas, the laughter of my children, a warm cup of coffee before work, wildflowers blooming after rain, a quiet moment in the middle of the chaos of the day.
At the time, I simply thought I was learning gratitude. Now, years later, neuroscience has given language to what I was unknowingly practicing. Our brains are constantly strengthening the neural pathways we use most often. The more we dwell on something, the more efficient our brains become at noticing similar things again. Psychologists call this experience-dependent neuroplasticity. It doesn't erase suffering, but it does shape our attention. We become increasingly fluent in whatever we rehearse.
If I rehearse people pleasing every day, my mind becomes skilled at finding reasons to perform for people. If I rehearse fear, I begin to expect danger around every corner. But if I intentionally practice gratitude - not denying pain, but refusing to let pain tell the entire story - my mind slowly becomes better at recognizing grace.
How beautiful that Scripture has been inviting us into this long before neuroscience could describe it:
"Remember the wondrous works that He has done." (Psalm 105:5)
"Forget not all His benefits." (Psalm 103:2)
"Finally... whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable... think about these things." (Philippians 4:8)
The Bible continually commands remembrance. God does not forget, but we so often do. We forget the time after time His faithfulness carried us.
August is dedicated to the Immaculate Heart of Mary, and I've found myself thinking about her heart this week. Luke tells us twice that Mary "kept all these things, pondering them in her heart" (Luke 2:19; Luke 2:51).
That verse is meaningful to me. I’m a self-described ponderer.
Mary wasn't emotionally detached; she wasn't pretending everything made sense.
She wasn't suppressing grief.
She was bringing every confusing, beautiful, painful, and holy moment before God, allowing Him (not the loudest circumstance) to interpret her life. An immaculate heart isn't a heart that never hurts. It's a heart so completely oriented toward God that suffering never becomes its master.
As women, many of us quietly carry stories we never fully tell. Sometimes that's wisdom. Sometimes it's charity. Sometimes it’s all we knew to do at the time.
But silence doesn't mean our hearts stop speaking.
The question is: What are they saying to our brains? Are they rehearsing fear and injustice? Or are they quietly collecting evidence of God's faithfulness? This week, while my heart has been tender, I've kept track of His gifts in my mind and photo reel.
A text from a friend. Fresh flowers beginning to bloom in the August heat. Green grass. Nachos. A warm bath. A good conversation. A long hug. A smile. Laughter. The privilege of watching my son become independent, just as I prayed he would become. The Eucharist. The steady love of my husband. My Jack holding my hand as we walked the hallway of the high school as he smiled about his "new school." God's mercy that is, as always, "new every morning" (Lamentations 3:22-23).
None of those erased my sadness. They simply reminded me that grief is not the only thing present; there is gratitude, too. And maybe that's what Mary teaches us best: not to ignore the sword that pierced her heart (Luke 2:35), but to believe that even pierced hearts can become places where grace dwells.
Today I released my son into the life God is preparing for him. I will cry again tonight and again tomorrow. But tonight, before I close this journal, I write one more gift: I was chosen to be his mother. Nothing and no one can ever take that away.
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