I used to think being sentimental was a superpower. Like, how amazing is it that I can’t seem to part with my old middle school projects or memories of friends I’ve half-forgotten? It felt important. As if every photo and old letter and yearbook signature was part of an unbreakable chain linking me to who I was. And if we really want to talk about sentimentalism, (I am deciding whether or not I should add this next part) somewhere, deep in the recesses of my childhood keepsakes, there’s a small glass jar—sealed tight—holding the remnants of my tonsils from 5th grade. Who keeps that kind of thing? Apparently, I do….
Yikes. The point is, I have been holding onto life so tightly. Like it’s this fragile, sentimental thing that is keeping me safe from the inevitable onward march of time. But it turns out that holding onto everything from my past isn’t as much about preserving my soul as I’ve thought. It is more about not letting myself grow up.
Today is the Feast of the Holy Family. And the story from Luke 2:41-50 is one of my favorite stories in the Bible, where little 12-year-old Jesus goes missing for three days. Mary and Joseph lose track of their kid and think he’s been kidnapped. They search high and low for him. It’s kind of a frantic story and a terribly relatable moment for any parent who’s ever had a “Where’s my child?!” freakout. But when they finally find him, Jesus is just chillin’ in the temple, talking theology with the scribes. And he says, “Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?”
Imagine you’re Mary. You just spent three anxious days, convinced your kid is lost or worse, and there he is, as cool as a cucumber, casually explaining that, yes, he had to be in God’s house because God’s mission is what’s been in his heart the whole time. And in that moment—though I can’t imagine the shock Mary must have felt—she realizes something: Jesus is not her little boy anymore. Well, he is, but he’s also something more.
I love this story so much, because I think that all my sentimentalism—the hoarding of pictures and memories and loved ones and the “I can’t let go!” attitude—is really just another version of Mary’s initial struggle. Jesus is called to something bigger than his earthly family. And Mary had to let him go, trusting that God’s will for him, for them, for all of us, was greater than any attachment she could have to the way things were.
For me, that stings. Letting go. It’s one of the hardest things we do as humans. We like our comforts and our memories and security. And yet—on this feast day, when I think about the Holy Family’s journey—it hits me that maybe we’re all called to let go in some way. Even with things we love. Even with the stuff that makes us feel safe. Even with the old photos and the notes that keep our past selves alive in our minds.
But what if by letting go, we make room for God’s greater plan? What if it’s not about hoarding the past but about entrusting it to God, knowing that, just like Jesus, our journey might take us somewhere we didn’t expect—but exactly where we need to be?
We all “mother” things in our lives. Maybe the memories we hold onto, or our habits and old routines, or people we love, or our favorite books, or dreams, or ideas, or that one super comfortable blanket. We grip tight to these things as if we could lose ourselves without them. But just like Mary had to loosen her grip on Jesus, maybe we have to loosen our grip on some of the things that keep us tied to a version of ourselves that God is calling us to outgrow.
This doesn’t mean forgetting. It doesn’t mean erasing the past or pretending it doesn’t matter. It means offering it up. I love the vision of offering everything to God—even my home and my favorite memories, my favorite jeans, my hair. …In fact, especially my hair. Because if I can trust God with everything, from sentimental things and even the things I’ve let define me, then I’m not just holding onto the past—I’m entrusting the past to Him. I’m saying, “I’m ready for what’s next, God. I’m ready for You to take this, literally all of it, and make it something new.” That’s the attitude I’m carrying into the new year. To not hold onto the past so tightly that I can’t let God do His work in me. To start offering my memories like a gift for Him. And to let go when He asks. Even if it’s really hard.
I’m so grateful for Mother Mary’s lessons in letting go. And for 12-year-old Jesus showing us that it doesn’t mean losing; it means walking forward into God’s plan. Because what we hold onto has never really been ours anyway. ☺
