This time of year carries a strange ache.
We remember what was. We miss who isn’t here. We hold memories that both comfort and sting.
The scent of pine. The glow of lights. The same old songs that still make us cry.
Memory is holy ground.
It takes us back—to childhood wonder, to the laughter of loved ones, to the grace of moments we didn’t know were sacred until they passed.
In Things We’ve Handed Down, I wrote about the legacies we leave, and the love that lingers long after we’re gone. Those memories matter. They shape who we become.
So oh this season, don’t rush past the remembering.
Invite it in.
Let tears fall if they need to.
Let joy rise if it will.
Memories are reminders that love was real. And that God was there—and still is.
The memories of the season are more than nostalgia. They are testimonies. Whispers of Emmanuel.
Proof that light once came, and keeps coming still.
