The People We Carry With Us

An All Saints' Day reflection on remembrance, identity, and belonging

A few nights ago, I found myself gathering photographs of loved ones who have died. Their pictures had been in different places throughout my home, but I wanted to bring them together. I wanted to see their faces, remember their stories, and make space for them in one place.

It was intentional. I wanted to bring attention to their lives and acknowledge the ways they remain part of my own story.

What I am less certain about is what prompted me to do it just now.

Perhaps it is because I am preparing for my ordination, a significant moment in my life that has caused me to think about the people who have shaped who I am, encouraged my faith, and accompanied me along the way.

Some of those people will not be physically present to witness this occasion, although their influence will certainly be present.

Whatever prompted me, I found myself making room for remembrance.

And that got me thinking about All Saints' Day.

Does Anyone Remember All Saints' Day?

For centuries, Christians have set aside time to remember those who have gone before us.

All Saints' Day, observed on November 1 in much of Western Christianity, has roots in the early church's practice of honoring martyrs and faithful witnesses. Over time, it developed into a celebration of the communion of saints, recognizing the faithful across generations.

And perhaps surprisingly to some, Halloween has a historical connection to this Christian observance.

The name Halloween comes from All Hallows' Eve, the evening before All Saints' Day. Although contemporary Halloween has been shaped by a variety of cultural influences, its name reflects its connection to the Christian calendar.

I recognize that for some Christians, practices associated with Halloween, honoring the dead, or remembering ancestors raise theological concerns. Some have been taught to avoid anything that might resemble ancestor worship, communicating with the dead, or venerating saints.

Christian traditions have not always understood these practices in the same way. During the Protestant Reformation, differing understandings of the saints and their veneration led some churches to change or discontinue certain observances. Others retained All Saints' Day, emphasizing thanksgiving for the lives and witness of those who had gone before.

But remembering someone is not the same as worshiping them.

We can honor the lives of those who shaped us, express gratitude for their influence, and acknowledge the ways their stories remain connected to our own without worshiping them or seeking to communicate with them.

In some Christian traditions, the communion of saints reminds us that the community of faith extends beyond those presently gathered in worship. We are connected to generations of people whose lives, faith, questions, and witness have helped shape the communities we know today.

It is a beautiful expression of belonging.

Many congregations continue to observe All Saints' Day through worship, prayer, candlelighting, and the reading of names. Yet I have noticed that I don't hear much about it in some of the communities and spaces I frequent.

I wonder whether, as this observance has become less visible in some places, we have also lost an intentional opportunity to remember together.

And perhaps an opportunity to care for one another.

Remembering Is an Act of Care

There is something meaningful about having space to remember the people who have shaped our lives.

Not only immediately after their death, when others expect us to grieve, but months, years, and even decades later.

Sometimes we want to tell a story about someone we loved. Sometimes we want to say their name aloud, laugh about something they did, or acknowledge how much we still miss them.

And sometimes we simply want to be able to say, "I'm not fine today. I'm missing someone."

We live in a world that often expects us to move forward, return to our routines, and eventually speak about our losses as though they are firmly behind us.

But love does not disappear because someone has died. Neither do the memories, the relationships, or the ways those people continue to shape our lives.

What if we made more room for remembering without requiring people to explain their grief or reassure us that they are doing well?

Not every memory will be joyful. Some relationships were complicated. Some people shaped our lives through love and encouragement, while others left us with questions, disappointments, or wounds we are still trying to understand.

Remembrance does not require us to pretend that every relationship was perfect or every loss has been resolved.

Perhaps part of the care offered through remembrance is the freedom to hold all of that without having to make our stories simpler than they really are.

But remembering offers something beyond making room for grief. It can also help us understand our identity and deepen our sense of belonging.

Our lives are not formed in isolation. We belong to families, communities, histories, and traditions that existed before us. Some we have embraced, some we have questioned, and some we are still learning to understand.

We carry the influence of parents, grandparents, teachers, neighbors, friends, spiritual guides, and ancestors we may never have met.

Their lives have helped shape our own.

And I wonder whether communal remembrance might offer us something particularly important in a time when loneliness, isolation, and a lack of belonging are increasingly part of our conversations about personal and communal well-being.

We can be surrounded by people and still feel disconnected because no one really knows our story.

They may not know the people who shaped us, the communities that formed us, or the relationships we continue to carry.

When we remember together, we offer one another an opportunity to be known.

We hear stories of love, sacrifice, faith, resilience, and sometimes complicated relationships. We begin to recognize the histories and experiences that have made us who we are.

And perhaps, in the telling and receiving of these stories, something happens.

We make room for connection.

Communal remembrance may not resolve the loneliness and isolation people experience, but it can be one meaningful way of resisting them.

Not by creating another program or asking people to participate in another activity, but by making room for something deeply human: the desire to remember, to be known, and to belong.

What Might We Offer One Another Through Remembrance?

I am interested in how the church might offer a space where people are free to remember, without expectation, performance, or pressure to be further along in their grief than they actually are.

But I also wonder what this might look like in our homes, among friends, within families, and in the communities where we find belonging.

What might it mean to hear someone tell a story about a grandmother, a teacher, a friend, or a person whose quiet presence changed the direction of their life?

What might it mean for someone who is grieving to discover that they do not have to carry their remembering alone?

We often make space for grief immediately following a death. But grief does not follow the calendar of funerals and memorial services.

Love continues. Memories return. And sometimes, years later, we simply want someone to know that a person mattered.

Communal remembrance can be one way of saying: Your loved one mattered. Your memories matter. And there is room here for both your love and your grief.

Perhaps remembering together also helps us recognize that we belong to one another, not because our stories are the same, but because we are willing to make room for one another's stories.

All Saints' Day is not only an opportunity to remember those who have died. It is also an opportunity to care for those who are living.

Making Room to Remember

This year, I am beginning simply.

I have gathered photographs of loved ones who have died, bringing them together in one place in my home. I wanted to see their faces, remember their stories, and acknowledge the ways their lives remain woven into my own.

And as I prepare for my ordination, I am thinking about the people whose love, faith, encouragement, and sacrifices have helped bring me to this moment.

On the day of my ordination, I will pin my grandmother's brooch to my stole.

It is a small gesture, but one filled with meaning.

It reminds me that I do not arrive here alone.

I am here because of the hopes, prayers, sacrifices, and love of many who came before me. Some whose faces I know and whose voices I can still remember. Others whose names and stories I may never know.

Their lives are part of mine.

And just as I carry something of those who came before me, I recognize that my own life will become part of the stories of those who come after me.

We are not only remembering the past. We are living in the present, shaped by those who came before us, while helping to shape a future we may never see.

Perhaps this is another gift of remembrance.

It reminds us that we belong to something larger than ourselves.

And that none of us arrives here alone.

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As All Saints' Day approaches, perhaps you might make a little room for remembrance in your own life.

• Gather. Place a photograph or meaningful object somewhere you can see it.

• Remember. Spend a few moments recalling someone whose life shaped yours.

• Share. Invite family members, friends, or children to tell stories about loved ones and ancestors.

• Listen. Ask someone about a person whose story you have never heard.

• Honor. Speak a name, offer a prayer, light a candle, or simply sit with the memories that come.

There is no right way to remember, and no expectation about how you should feel.

Looking ahead to 2027, The Faith Studio hopes to offer All Saints' Day: A Sacred Gathering of Remembrance, an online space where we can share stories, speak names, and remember together.