I come upon my own words as if I were a guest in a familiar house built while I slept. They are sound. They are careful. They honor truth. And as I read them, I feel something deeper than recognition — I feel gratitude. Gratitude not for my recall, which is imperfect, but for Jehovah’s generosity. He allowed accurate thoughts to be formed, expressed, and used, even when my mind no longer holds every step of the process. The wonder is not that I forget. The wonder is that Jehovah remembers — and continues to bless what was done for His sake long after my hands have let it go.

I noticed something that caught me off guard. I went back and reread a few things I had written on the forum — posts that brothers and sisters had appreciated and commented on. As I read them, I agreed with what was written. The reasoning was sound. The scriptures were used correctly. The tone was balanced. Nothing felt off.

But I did not remember writing the details.

I remembered posting. I remembered the occasion. I remembered that it was me. What I did not remember was shaping the thoughts line by line. That unsettled me more than I expected. Not in a panicked way — more like a quiet pause that makes you reread something twice.

My first instinct wasn’t fear. It was confusion. Why don’t I remember this? How much of my writing do I remember? Is this normal? Am I missing something I should be paying attention to?

I sat with that. I didn’t rush to conclusions. I didn’t jump to explanations. I just noticed the oddness of recognizing my own voice without recalling the act of speaking.

And then something else became clear. I didn’t feel disconnected from the thoughts. I didn’t disagree with them. I didn’t feel like they came from somewhere foreign. They felt right. They felt faithful. They felt like something I would say — even if I couldn’t replay the moment I said it.

That was the turning point. I wasn’t reading something alien. I was rereading something finished.

One concern I had was whether using AI assistance somehow meant that it was doing the teaching instead of me. But AI does not believe, does not reason morally, does not have a conscience, and does not act with faith or intent. It cannot choose truth, apply Scripture, or take responsibility for what is said. Any use of such a tool reflects only the intent, judgment, and convictions of the person using it. The content stands or falls on my beliefs, my approval, and my accountability — not the tool that helped organize the expression.

That also doesn’t mean AI is neutral in every possible use. It can reproduce wording, echo publications, or assemble ideas it has been exposed to if someone prompts it carelessly or without discernment. That is precisely why intent and direction matter. The output I receive is shaped by the questions I ask, the boundaries I set, and the standards I insist on. Without those, the results would be generic or even misleading. The tool does not choose the lane — the user does.

Once I saw that, the unease loosened. The question shifted. It was no longer, “Why don’t I remember this?” It became, “What does it mean that this was done, done well, and still useful — even if I don’t relive it?”

Memory does not store every act of care the same way it stores moments of fear or delight. When attention is steady, purposeful, and given away for the good of others, the mind often records the work as a process rather than preserving the finished picture. Once the task is released, there is no emotional need to replay it. The index goes quiet, even though the content remains intact. Retrieval softens, not because something is broken, but because nothing is demanding rehearsal. (Modern neuroscience consistently shows that emotionally meaningful experiences are consolidated more strongly than routine cognitive work. See McGaugh, 2003; LaBar & Cabeza, 2006.)

Meaning strengthens memory. What we linger over, we keep. What we give away freely, we often do not.

The Scriptures put it simply: “I planted, Apollos watered, but God kept making it grow. So neither is the one who plants anything nor is the one who waters, but God who makes it grow.” (1 Corinthians 3:6–7, NWT)

That is the wonder. The fruit remains even when the sower does not remember every seed. Truth does not depend on my recall to be true. It stands. It helps. It grows — sometimes most clearly when I encounter it again as a reader rather than the writer.