The winding hill was flatter and shorter than I remembered. A corner of the aging blue house I had passed hundreds of times stuck out in a way that made the entire house seem foreign. Glimpses of glimmering lake water appeared in new, larger gaps between driveways. “Is this the same road?” I wondered as I tugged on my Dri-Fit sleeve to wipe sweat from my eye. The only thing familiar was the rhythmic beat of my feet hitting the pavement. The only thing different? My point of view. 

The choice to reverse my route that day came from a desire to break monotony, to see how it felt to go up instead of down, to move the end to the beginning. I did not anticipate a lesson in the value of turning around. The tilt of a new perspective provided fertile ground for new questions. Am I on the same path? Was the blue paint always that bright? Did the house on the corner suddenly age? Had the arms of those majestic Evergreens always reached so high?

Some answers came easily, others took time. Still others, I will never be quite sure. When it comes to looking back, grounding does not come from certainty. At the completion of my run that day, I felt an unexpected satisfaction because of the questions themselves. The process of inquiry made me pay more attention; I found delight – fullness, even - in both remembrance of the familiar and discovery of the novel. 

As a Christ-follower, I am instructed to remember. Isaiah implores me to “remember the former things,” but I tend to gravitate more toward the words of Paul, to “forget what is behind and strain toward what is ahead.” Perhaps it is because I don’t always know how to look back. 

First, I forget that it is a choice. I ran in the same direction over and over again, before turning around. And when I did finally go in the opposite direction, I fought reluctance and a strong pull to stay on the known course. Remembrance requires intention. 

Second, a dig through the past typically sends me on a quest for things I can easily grasp like lessons learned, reassurance or happy memories. I am not prepared to be surprised by a barrage of questions, especially unanswerable ones. Moreover, I lose touch with a presence that can only come from process. 

Without turning around, I cannot remember. Without remembering, I have no questions. Without questions, I miss out on the process of asking. Without the process, I miss presence.