When I was forced in parochial school to learn the Eight Beatitudes, I always stumbled over the third one, “Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth.” How absurd. The meek, from my observation, ended up with the chicken neck rather than the breast, the giver rather than receiver of nice birthday gifts, the one at home on New Year’s, the one to care for ancient relatives and disabled pets no one else would keep, forgotten in the will, passed up for promotions, living in later years on Social Security in a trailer. I might buy “for theirs is the kingdom of heaven,” but inherit the earth? Look around.

I get it now, though; for as I grow older I find that it is the meek I cannot forget. Long after I can no longer remember the ruthless, machinelike ones, I remember the gentlest souls. They are the ones I must celebrate, the ones whose portraits I find myself trying to write again and again, my mother, my dear Aunt Anne, my fifth and sixth grade teacher, Mr. Grekle. When I write the portraits of those who have loved me best, I understand how it is they inherit the earth, for they are the ones who have taken possession of me.

–Tristine Rainer, Your Life as Story: Discovering the New Autobiography” and Writing Memoir as Literature