Some Seasons Are Meant to Be Remembered, Not Revisited-Part 1

What Time Reveals

A series on memory, faith, and boundaries

This series begins with a class reunion and unfolded into something deeper—a reflection on memory, truth, and the quiet wisdom that comes with time. These reflections explore what we remember, what we later come to understand, and how faith teaches us to set boundaries without bitterness.

Written from a place of discernment rather than anger, What Time Reveals invites readers to honor the past without being bound to it, to choose peace without apology, and to trust that clarity often arrives exactly when we’re ready to receive it.

In 2019, I decided to attend my 40-year high school class reunion. My youngest daughter and I made it a road trip instead of flying—fifteen hours of windshield time, music, snacks, and conversations that unfolded mile by mile.

After checking into the hotel and getting dressed, I headed down the road for dinner in my former hometown. The reunion committee had chosen a little diner I realized I had never stepped foot in while growing up in that small country town. Funny how time gives you permission to explore places you once passed by without a second thought. I paused to look at the grand courthouse that had withstood the passage of time, and around at the town square that used to be home to some of my favorite little “mom & pop shops.”

My graduating class was tiny—about 63 students. Okay, okay…I told you it was a small town. Over the years, some classmates had passed on. And out of the six Black students in my class, only three of us—including me—showed up. Three other classmates including myself had traveled quite a distance to attend, while most others had never left or had moved only a short distance away.

At the reunion, everything felt good. Familiar. Easy. My former classmates seemed genuinely happy to see me. We reminisced, laughed, took pictures, and leaned over tables filled with memorabilia—yearbooks, photos, reminders of who we once were. We even talked excitedly about the next reunion, as if this re-connection was something solid we could count on.

Goats?

At one point during the evening, I found myself sitting at a round table with several classmates, and I realized I had spent the majority of the night talking about goats. Yes—goats. True story.
(Not politics. Not Our Careers. Not life. Goats.)

Now don’t get me wrong—I haven’t forgotten my roots. I grew up with pigs and chickens. Farm life was normal where I came from. But after living on the East Coast for the past seventeen years, I honestly couldn’t tell you the last time I stood near a farm animal, much less carried on an extended conversation about one. Yet there I was, nodding along, smiling, trying to wrestle together something—anything—to add.

Goats felt safe.

Talking about goats didn’t require vulnerability. Or honesty. Or explaining who I had become since leaving that little town behind. Goats didn’t ask hard questions. They simply filled the space.

And that’s when it hit me—we were all reaching for common ground, even if it was a little dusty and four-legged. We lingered in stories about animals and memories because they were harmless. Comfortable. Neutral. It was easier to talk about livestock than to acknowledge how far apart we really were.

So we stayed there, around that round table, laughing politely, never quite naming the distance that had quietly grown between us.

Looking back, that conversation said more than I realized at the time.

We weren’t just talking about goats.
We were avoiding everything else.

When the Curtain Pulled Back

Once I returned home, I followed some former classmates on social media, thinking it would be fun to stay connected. Instead, I found myself blocking more than adding. And I remember thinking, How could I have been so wrong?

These weren’t strangers. These were people I was in band with, cheered alongside, slipped notes to when the teacher wasn’t looking, laughed and cried with—friends. I even thought about their parents—parents who gave me rides to ballgames, welcomed me into their homes. And I found myself wondering: Is this where it started? Were these attitudes about race shaped long before we were old enough to name them?

Post after post revealed beliefs steeped in racism—beliefs that never showed themselves face-to-face. It was unsettling to realize how much can hide behind nostalgia and polite smiles. How easy it is to confuse shared history with shared values.

Choosing Not to Return

A few months ago, another reunion invitation arrived.

I stared at it for a moment, waiting for excitement to surface. It didn’t. I felt no inclination to attend this time. Not out of anger. Not even disappointment. Just clarity.

I would rather keep the good memories of a time long expired than travel a great distance to look into the eyes of people who carry such disdain for those whose skin tone is different from their own.

Some seasons are meant to be remembered, not revisited.

The Long Road Home

So my daughter and I traveled that long road back home to the East Coast—fifteen hours again. This time, filled with reflection. I shared stories from my childhood and teenage years, memories long spent.

I encouraged her to attend her own reunion someday, when the time came. She listened, then quietly said she didn’t think she would go.

At the time, I smiled.

Now, I wonder if she knew something I didn’t yet understand. That sometimes it’s okay—healthy, even—to leave people where you left them. In the past. Not out of bitterness, but out of wisdom.

A Gentle Faith Reflection

Scripture reminds us, “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). Some conversations belong to seasons that have passed. Some truths are honored not by revisiting, but by releasing.

Grace doesn’t require us to revisit places that disturb our peace. Forgiveness doesn’t demand proximity. And love—real love—never asks us to shrink ourselves for the comfort of others.

As I look back on that evening, I realize the goats weren’t really the point.
They were just easier.
Easier than politics. Easier than truth. Easier than naming how much we had all changed.
(Still… goats.)

And it makes me wonder—how often do we do that in our own lives? Reach for the safest conversation, the least complicated memory, the topic that asks nothing of us, just to avoid what might cost us clarity or peace?

What do you talk about when the truth feels too heavy to say out loud? I would love to here your comments on Instagram or Facebook.

Mama Wisdom’s Note

Sometimes growth looks like knowing when not to return, when to leave memories where they belong, and when to choose peace over nostalgia.