REMEMBER ME
Then he said, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom." - Luke 23:42
There is something profound about being seen, truly seen, especially in our most fragile moments. The thief on the cross did not bargain with God, justify himself, or make a grand request. He simply asked to be remembered - to not be lost in the vastness of it all, to know that even in his suffering, love still had its eyes on him. That his suffering, his rawness, and his desperate hope to belong mattered. To know that even in his mess, he was still being held.
Earlier this Lenten season, I carried a cross I believed I had to bear alone. The weight was immense - not just in sorrow but also in the silence I kept out of love, out of loyalty, and an unspoken rule that whispered, “This is not your story to tell.” So, I did not share it. I held it. I swallowed it. And yet, deep in my heart, I knew I was being called to love in a way beyond my understanding - to stretch wider, to trust that surrender might bring a grace I could not yet see. I convinced myself that speaking of it would only make it heavier. I poured my heart out to God and asked for the strength to be patient enough, accepting enough, and trusting enough - so that I could carry it without breaking.
Then, a beloved and dear friend reached out - not seeking details or explanations, just offering their presence. It was a quiet reminder that I did not have to be unseen in my suffering. Like the thief on the cross, I did not ask to be rescued. I did not even name the depth of my pain. And yet, in my friend’s reaching out, I felt what my soul had been aching for - an assurance that I was not carrying this burden alone. That I, too, was remembered.
That day, I heard the thief’s prayer differently. He did not ask to be saved or prove his worth. He asked to be remembered. And Jesus - without conditions, without hesitation - turned to him and said, “You are with me. Always.” I am still learning to believe that love can find me even in the mess, heartbreak, and the parts of me that feel too complicated, too broken. That staying open - choosing love, choosing forgiveness, choosing to be in relationship - might be the bravest thing I will ever do. It stretches me. It demands more of me than I ever thought I could give. It asks me to soften and allow space where I thought none existed. To trust that love runs deeper than my wounds. Maybe the real invitation is not to fix, prove, or hold it all together. Perhaps it is to let myself be seen in the tenderness of my surrender. To allow myself to be held, known, and remembered.
Lord, help me trust that love still has its eyes on me - even when I feel invisible. Teach me to accept the kind of grace that comes not from being strong but from allowing myself to be seen as I am.
Tam Lontok