Dear Friend,
This weekend, I found myself at a 1940s dance in Gettysburg with a group of friends. We dressed in the style of the era—polished shoes, pressed dresses, crisp suits—and danced to music that once carried people through war, uncertainty, and long nights of waiting for news from the front. We laughed like we had no troubles at all, yet all around us, history whispered its weight. The machines that once carried soldiers, the stories tucked into every tune, the air itself seemed to hold courage in its folds. It was like we were at a dance with our loved one on base, unsure if they'd be called out at any moment.
On the drive home, a quiet stirring came over me. We honor history and the resilience of those who came before us—but how often do we pause to honor God’s faithfulness in our own history?
Sometimes the battles we face feel unbearable, pressed so close that they fill the entire frame of our lives. Like holding a photograph against your nose, all you see is blur and shadow. But when you pull it back, the full image comes into view. Gratitude pulls the picture back. Remembrance restores clarity. When we intentionally reflect on what God has already brought us through, fear loosens its grip, and peace begins to settle in. In the midst of the prime of these vehicles, that was not easy. How can you hold hope and joy in the midst of the hardest and most uncertain things in life?
I have always been moved by early photographs. When they were first created, it could take over eight hours to capture and process an image. You didn’t casually record a moment—you chose it carefully. It had to be worth the time. Worth the memory. And once it was developed, it became something lasting. A preserved memory. Our lives are much the same. If we do not intentionally “capture” the moments of God’s faithfulness—if we don’t pause long enough to mark them—they fade into the background of hardship. But we have a choice. We can rehearse fear, or we can rehearse faithfulness. We can fixate on the battle, or we can remember the victories God has already secured. What we choose to hold onto shapes how clearly we see the present. And when we choose to remember well, even our current battles become testimonies of His faithfulness.
If you think about it from the perspective of war, a general on the battlefield in World War II could not afford to fixate on every loss or every moment the enemy pushed back. If he stood frozen, replaying the fallen and rehearsing the ground temporarily lost, he would paralyze his troops. Advancement requires perspective. Strategy demands memory—but not obsession. A wise general remembers past victories to steady morale, remembers resilience to reinforce courage, and remembers the larger mission when the present moment is brutal. If he allowed the pain of the present to eclipse the purpose of the war, his soldiers would never move forward. In the same way, if we fixate only on what hurts now or what didn’t go as we hoped yesterday, we stall our own spiritual advance. Remembrance, rightly held, doesn’t trap us in the past—it strengthens us to press on. It reminds us that setbacks are not the end of the story and that victory is secured by continuing forward, not by standing still in the shadow of loss.
I’ll be honest—there are areas of my life right now that feel heavy and ongoing. Pain presses close, like a photograph pressed to my nose. My leg had been in brutal pain for a while. My body reminds me of limits I once thought permanent and tried to keep me in them. But when I step back and revisit the ways God has carried me before—through surgeries, infections, and seasons I thought would break me—I am reminded that His character hasn’t changed. The same God who preserved generations through war, famine, and depression is preserving me now. The same God who sustained my family is sustaining me in this moment. Even when your battle feels immediate and overwhelming, He is here, pulling you back into His arms in ways perhaps you have never experienced before. Lean back. Remember. Trust His faithfulness.
When you honor someone, you’re acknowledging impact. You’re recognizing sacrifice. You’re pausing long enough to say, “What you did mattered.” What if you also recognize how God worked through them? What if honoring the resilience of those who came before you becomes a doorway to honoring the faithfulness of God in your own life? Slowing down enough to see the past for what it truly is and drawing forth honor to the forefront of our minds. That is what I feel when I step into events based in eras before me. They slow me down. They draw me back to roots I can feel in my bones—the intentionality, the simplicity, the quiet courage that carried people through hardship. They remind me that I am not alone in struggle, that resilience and joy can coexist with pain, and that faithfulness has always been a generational inheritance.
Remembrance is not just reflection—it is a spiritual weapon. When we remember God’s goodness in the past, it trains us to resist the lies of fear and despair in the present. Pain may visit. Hardship may press close. But when we deliberately pull back the lens, we see the full picture: victories already secured, mercy already given, and a faithful God already moving. This is the armor that steadies us, the shield that keeps the enemy’s whispers from rewriting our story. Gratitude becomes defiance. Faith becomes a weapon. Joy becomes resistance.
And here is the circle I keep returning to: the music of the 1940s, the polished shoes, the dresses, the rhythm that once carried people through ration lines, air raid drills, telegrams of loss, and quiet nights of waiting—these things are more than nostalgia. They are reminders. They are proof that joy can exist even in hardship. That life can be celebrated even in uncertainty. That beauty, care, and laughter are acts of courage in themselves. When I dance in that era, I am stepping not only into history but into remembrance—of what God has already done, of what He has carried me through, and of what He will continue to carry me through.
So step lightly, friends, and dance through the days you’ve been given. Laugh as they did in the ration lines. Hold close the moments you’ve survived and the victories already won. For just as the music carried them through war, the same God carries you—faithful, steady, and true—through every storm.
And when the band plays the next tune, and the polished floor creaks beneath your feet, remember this: you are walking on the evidence of miracles, dancing through inherited courage, and living inside a story written by a God who never fails.
With all my heart,
Kelsay