Memory Keepers

This is the threshold, the place where memory meets imagination. Some stories live in dirt under fingernails, some in the noise of a crowded room, and some in the quiet after midnight. Here they gather—scraps of faith and failure, flashes of joy, and the weight of questions that refuse to stay buried. These stories aren’t polished artifacts; they’re living things. They walk with me, wrestle with me, and surprise me.

If you follow along, you’ll discover stories filled with soil, laughter, doubt, and grace. You might see your reflection in them or discover something you didn’t know you were searching for. Either way, this is the place where my stories live.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:10

Hey, welcome where my stories live. You know, this is the threshold, the place where memory meets imagination. You know, some stories live in dirt under our fingernails, and some in the noise of a crowded room, and some in the quiet after midnight. Here they gather, scraps of faith and failure, flashes of joy, and the weight of questions that refuse to stay buried. These stories are not polished artifacts, because they're living things, they walk with me, they wrestle with me, and sometimes they even surprise me. If you're following along, you may see your own reflection here, or discover something you did not know you were searching for. Either way, this is the place where my stories live. Stories have always been more than entertainment. They are the vessels that carry a people's soul, they teach values without sounding like lectures, they preserve culture and kindle courage. Long before books and explanations, you know, people gather around fires. Stories were told while embers dance in the dark. Values carried in story are remembered. They are repeatable, they're transferable. We carry where we come from by remembering our stories. That is why ancient writings do not begin with arguments. The Bible does not begin with arguments, but they begin with a story. Story that shape imagination before they even shape belief. And one of those stories found in ancient writings has shaped me deeply. In the Bible, there comes a moment when leadership shifts. Now, if you don't know where I am, just watch the Prince of Egypt. Moses, this epic leader, hands responsibility to a young man named Joshua. If I could speak to God, I would say, would you please go easy on Joshua? Because Moses had a burning bush. He heard an audible voice that says, I am who I am. He watched Ten Plagues, the Miracles, and Joshua followed faithfully. But now it's time for him to lead. And the first place God leads him to is not into safety, but into impossibility. They came to the Jordan River. Now you would expect that God would kind of ease him in and cause the Jordan River to be at its lowest point. But no, of course, it is in flood stage. You hear it before you see it, a roar, a wall of water declaring this way is closed. Behind them are 40 years of wandering in slavery, and ahead of them, only a promise, no guarantees, no clear path. Often this is the place where faith either drowns or God does something unforgettable. You know what? Here is what I've learned. Maybe it's true, but my experience tells me that God does not part the water and then invites us to step in. Because it requires no faith and trust. When we step in, trembling, unsure, then, most predictably then, that's when God shows up and the water moves. They crossed on dry ground as God parted the water. God gives Joshua a strange instruction as they moved on dry ground. Do not just move on. Stop Joshua. Pick up large stones from the riverbed in the middle of the miracle, twelve of them, one for each tribe. Carry them to the other side and stack them high. Now Joshua was a man just like you and I, and he had to ask God, why? God said, so that when your children ask, Why are these stones here? You will tell them the story. The miracle was not only the crossing, because the miracle will be about the remembering. Because you see, those stones became living memorials. They're not dead, they are reminders that God wastes nothing, not even pain. Our stories are not random souvenirs, they are marked and tied to moments when the impossible met grace. You see, memory fuels faith, gratitude softens the heart. Remembering keeps us humble. We are not drifters, we are people on a journey. That is why I'm telling my stories now. My family came to the United States years ago. There are many stories before that story. We arrived in this city called Rochester, New York, couldn't even find it on a map when I was 33 years old. Two small, small children, six suitcases and a dream we could barely name. Now, 26 years later. Honestly, I've got to be tell you, I'm 59. And once again, I find myself standing in uncertainty between what I've known for over two decades and what I don't know. And next season I cannot see. I'm not sharing this for sympathy. I'm sharing this because I need to hear my story. And maybe you need to remember your story. So here is the project. This is why I'm doing this. I've got a goal. 60 stories before I turn 60. Stories about buildings and places, unexpected people, decisions I still questioned, weights I never asked to carry. Failures, fires that could have consumed me, but they didn't. Resurrections I never saw coming. The joys I can count, the questions that still keep me up at night. The journey I planned that never happened. These are not inspirational stories, they are stories worth remembering. So consider this invite as you're listening. You, me, at a campfire. Embers dancing in the night, a conversation? It's not a performance. I do not know exactly where these stories will lead, but I believe they are worth telling. 60 stories before 60. I've no idea how we will get there, but this one thing I know. It may be worth my journey, and it may be worth yours to follow.