An Ode To Our Unique, Unicorn Brains

“Low verbal memory,” the doc says.

Oh, thank heavens! The relief at finding a name for the struggle that had me caught up, so plagued. 

She said, “You have to work twice as hard in school as the rest…to remember all the scientific terminology.” 

I cried. 

No one had known or acknowledged the hustle, quite like this. 

Nobody had known the shame, covered up; the regular embarrassment of just trying to keep up; of saying sorry to friends, asking them for “repeats” once again

“I promise I’m listening! I just can’t get those names and important details!” 

In middle school—oh the horror—of being left out, not knowing the names of actors or musicians—just wanting to fit in (or so I thought).

But that little girl just couldn’t remember…

Playing word games and having no words come, when her friends, just as smart and competitive as she, could easily progress. She just didn’t understand.

Oh, the dread of our weaknesses and the way our special unicorn brains try to cope and compensate. 

She’s deeply paying attention, but can’t keep up. Her brain sees your face, feels what you feel—she’s got super powers therein, but she just can’t remember your name.

Always paying close attention to something amazing (but just not what the teacher says is correct)—and the world echoes: “You just can’t keep up!”

Will I be able to rewrite this script? This thing Scripture says is the way the world sees the “outer appearance?” Will I be able to value what I see? What only I can do? What only I can catch? 

If I was one of Jesus’ eyewitnesses–what would be my account of His life? 

My vantage point—it would be so nice! 

I’d be able to tell you how I felt when I was with Him. I could report the tone of His voice. I could remember His face—His kind eyes. I’d report His character qualities—each one; how He’d treated others, how I’d teared up each time He’d moved me. I’d even see some of the heart, the essence, of the words He’d said. I could tell you the vision He implanted in my head, the motivation He gave me to carry on until the end. I’d remember how He had treated His enemies and all that He had put in my hands.

I may not have remembered where we were, all the people in the room, or even be able to estimate how many were in the crowd that day. I’d have forgotten to say the town name and lots of other important details.

But I can tell you one thing: my account would count. It’s beauty and the music therein would captivate.

I’m glad He didn’t pick me among Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John, because I’m sure my account wouldn’t even have proved His real existence in historical, chronological time. 

It might tell of your future, or who He says you are–it might give you a feeling, a hope, or encouragement plug. 

I hope it would make Him proud nonetheless because He made this brain of mine to reflect His goodness, His beauty, His love, His compassion, His grit, His tenacity—even His dreams.

So, whatever it is you reflect—we need it.

We need your account in this multifaceted narration of His heart over the span of history and time. How you reflect His story in your context, in your time—it matters.

The account you make of who He is, is still valid. So tell your tale—however colorful, frivolous, or vague—however verbose or concise. Because someone else needs to hear it!

~in just your sort of way~

—Margaret Merle