Like most siblings, when I was a little girl, my big brother and I would play hide and seek. We usually played it outside and almost invariably, I would get found. However sometimes the game moved inside which meant there was one place I could hide where I was never found — inside Mom’s coat.

You see, my mom had this black dress coat that had little flecks of color all over it. I specifically remember the red and yellow flecks — they were the ones that caught my eye. The coat hung in Mom and Dad’s closet. The clothing bar was low enough that Mom’s coat almost touched the closet floor. The lining in that beautiful coat was heavy black satin. It was soft and almost fluid when it touched my face as I would hide inside the coat.

I loved that coat — the look of it, the texture and feel of it. I loved that as I stood wrapped in its warmth, I could smell my Mom’s perfume. It was almost like she was hugging me while I was quietly waiting for my brother to stop looking for me so that I could slip from the safety of the coat and rush to home base.

Memories.

My mom, her coat, her perfume, the warmth, safety, and sense of belonging that I felt as I stood within its folds. My brother, his tenacity, the fact that he actually thought I was fun to play with, especially since I sure thought that he was.

To be honest, those memories have been front and center in my heart and mind during the past few weeks. Partly because my brother has been gone for seven years this week and I miss him. They’ve also been on my mind because I am missing my mom — she lives a long, long way from here.

I guess I’ve been reliving that game with my brother and those hugs from Mom’s coat for quite awhile now. In the past year, I’ve gotten two sweaters with the same kinds of colorful flecks in them — one white one and one black. I love them. They remind me of carefree, happy days playing with my brother. They remind me of Mom’s coat. That’s all the reason I need to keep them in my closet.

I am coming to realize that those treasured memories can make a big difference on a cold, sad, hard day.

I believe that our memories are gifts from God. It doesn’t matter whether they are good or bad memories, they have meaning. The “bad” memories are the ones that help us to see the value of the “good” memories as we experience the contrasting emotions. For example, how can we know the value of hug unless we’ve also experienced loneliness? Is it possible to appreciate a sense of welcome without knowing rejection?

Maybe, just maybe, the reason I’ve been reliving all those hugs from Mom’s coat is because I’m supposed to help create a memory of welcome in the life of someone around me. Perhaps I’ve been remembering a game with my brother because someone in my world needs to feel as though they have been included.

Memories. We are treasure them, and we are blessed by them.

The question then becomes, how can I to be a part of making memories in another person’s life so that he or she can know what it’s like to belong, to be welcomed, and to be valued?