Happy, holy All Saints’ Day!

It’s one of my favorite days in the liturgical year. In our home, we celebrate by displaying photographs of our deceased loved ones—our family’s saints—on the mantel, alongside our small collection of canonized saint statues and drawings. We tell stories about all the saints and Saints, sing the Litany of the Saints, and watch the Pixar film Coco, which explores, in its own secular way, some of the themes at the heart of the day.

Our whole family loves these traditions, and we look forward to them each year. We do them because All Saints’ Day is an important feast in our Catholic tradition, and because I want us to live the liturgical year, not simply read about it or talk about it. I want our faith to take up actual space in our home and in our family life.

But we also do these things because tradition is valuable in and of itself. Traditions give our children anchor points throughout the year, little rituals that help them experience the passage of time as something meaningful rather than arbitrary. They create a sense of belonging and continuity, connecting our children to a story much bigger than their own. And, of course, they teach. It’s one thing to tell a child that death is not the end, that the communion of saints binds us together, and that the people we love remain part of our story. It’s another thing to put their great-grandmother’s photograph above our fireplace and tell stories about her.

And there are bigger, more overarching reasons for celebrating All Saints’ Day, too. There are philosophical reasons why Catholics remember the dead, reasons that extend beyond the value of family traditions or the importance of marking a feast day. Every now and then, I find it helpful to step back and consider the big picture alongside the small one unfolding in my own home.

What are we doing when we remember the dead? What does remembering accomplish, both for those who have gone before us and for those of us who remain? And why might remembering be not simply a nice thing to do, but an essential part of a well-lived life?

Here are three things I think we’re doing when we practice the Catholic art of remembering.

We remember to honor

Remembering the dead is an act of love and gratitude. It is a way of saying that a person's life mattered, that their presence made a difference, and that we are not quite who we are without them. We honor the people who came before us by telling their stories, celebrating their goodness, and acknowledging all that we have received from them. This includes the small things as well as the big things, which in our family looks like remembering the generosity and business ethics of my father-in-law and also the fact that he would never say no to ice cream.

We honor the dead not because they were perfect, but because they were human, made in the image of God, and worthy of being remembered.

We remember to learn

The people who came before us have something to teach us, if we are willing to pay attention. Their lives offer examples of courage, faithfulness, generosity, and perseverance, as well as cautionary tales about the mistakes and wounds we would do well not to repeat. Remembering our dead helps us understand where we came from, recognize the patterns we have inherited, and discern what we want to carry forward. 

Our family learns from my Aunt Anne and my Aunt Teresa — two of my mom’s sisters, who both lived their lives with chronic illness and died in their middle age — the power of perseverance and finding joy within struggle. We talk about how they bore their crosses and how they spread light within darkness, and we learn from these conversations — and their lives.

Our saints remind us that holiness is not an abstract ideal but something lived out, imperfectly and faithfully, in the particular circumstances of a human life.

We remember to shape

The stories we tell and the people we choose to remember shape who we become. When we make room in our homes and our calendars for the dead, we teach our children what matters: that we belong to something larger than ourselves, that love reaches across generations, and that our lives are part of a story we did not begin and will not finish. 

It is my hope that when my children are faced with a dilemma about including a classmate on the fringe they will remember my late grandfather bringing home the neighborhood outcast and including him in family dinner, insisting that each of his ten children shake the child’s hand as he — my grandfather — introduced the child as his friend Billy. It is my hope that my children will recall the story of Joan of Arc, one of their favorites, when they are in need of courage, and that they will be able to recite her words in their minds and hearts: “I am not afraid; I was born to do this.” Remembering the saints helps all of us shape ourselves into the best possible versions of ourselves. 

The traditions we build around remembering help form our family's identity and give our children a sense of continuity, belonging, and purpose. In remembering those who came before us, we also take greater care with the lives we are living now, knowing that someday we, too, will become part of someone else's story. In remembering the dead, we honor the past, learn how to live in the present, and help shape the future—keeping alive the beautiful Catholic conviction that love is stronger than death.