Every other weekend, I get paid to do one of my favorite things: sing. Along with my husband and several others, I’m a cast member at the Rockbox, a live music theater.

The only problem is that I have trouble remembering things. 

Otherwise it’s a great job. I work with creative, godly—and yes, even humble!—performers who value excellence and love to laugh. I’m very thankful to have such an unusual, fulfilling job. In fact, the other cast members and I have been working together for almost ten years. We’ve done over 1,500 shows during that time—sometimes in very close quarters. And we still like each other! How cool is that? We’re more like family than coworkers.

There are a few drawbacks to working in the theater, however. First, my hubby and I have to spend long hours away from our two boys—one of the reasons that I only work two weekends out of four. Second, we have to miss out on a lot of social events. Third, we have to stay in shape to fit into our costumes (okay, that’s actually a good thing, except around Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, my birthday . . . but I digress).

Another downside is that I have to use my brain. A lot. For someone who is memory-impaired, that’s difficult. I could blame it on my thyroid, which is on the slow side, on two childbirths, or on my rapidly advancing age. But whatever the reasons, I have trouble remembering things.

Ah, there’s the rub: a performer has to recall lines, staging, costume and set changes, props, lyrics, and music. If one happens to forget where she put her microphone, and she finally finds an extra one but misses her light cue and has to start singing offstage, it does not look professional.

Hypothetically speaking, of course.

Thankfully, I have a great boss who is very forgiving. And by God’s grace, my glaring mistakes are few. I make plenty of small errors, but experience has taught me to never telegraph them to the audience. Most of the time, the people in the seats don’t know the difference.

But I do.

And after one particularly gaffe-heavy rehearsal, I started thinking how grateful I am that God’s brain isn’t like mine. He doesn’t forget me—ever.

Sometimes, I’ve doubted that. When my prayers go months (or years) without answers, when relentless trials crash like waves into the shore of my life, or when someone dear to me suffers, I wonder . . . did God turn his back for a minute? Where is He? Did he get busy with other things and forget about little old me?

The children of Israel asked those same questions while they suffered captivity at the hands of their enemies.

Isaiah’s reply comforted them, and it reassures me:  " . . . I will not forget you! See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; your walls are ever before me" (49:15-16, NIV).

Just like I sometimes make notes about crucial info on my palm with a Sharpie marker, God—the Maker of the Universe—has written my name on His hand. How about that?! Even better, my "little old" problems, fears, and dreams are always in the front of his mind.

Now THAT is something I will choose to remember.