I have a tattoo on the back of my arm that says REMEMBER.
It’s intentional—not just the word, but the placement. It’s a covenant reminder, a Kingdom principle, a call to remember all God has done. But it’s also on the back of my arm where I can’t see it. I put it there on purpose because some of the things behind me are hard to look at. Some of them are too heavy to carry. Some still feel too impossible to believe God can fix, and yet they matter too much to throw away.
This morning I found myself in Deuteronomy 8, a chapter that is essentially one long command to remember the Lord your God. If I’m honest, it interrupted me right in the middle of scrolling, right in the middle of my workload, right in the middle of trying to just get through the morning. It stopped me. And as forty-five gets closer, it felt important to pause and remember.
Because this year held a lot. Some of it was too much to bear. Some of it still feels impossible to fix. But all of it was important.
This is the year I learned the difference between a seasonal assignment and a lifelong purpose.
- Not everything God asks you to build is meant for you to keep.
- Not everything you pour into is meant to last forever.
This year we released our church, and it was both jarring and beautiful. There was grief in letting go and grace in trusting God with what we could not carry forward. I learned that obedience sometimes looks like staying, but sometimes it looks like releasing, and both require the same level of trust.
This is the year I was reminded to check my heart daily for what I am worshipping.
Gods of Gold was not just a series i wrote, it was a mirror. It revealed how quickly good things can become ultimate things, how subtly idols can form, and how necessary it is to come back, again and again, to what truly holds first place. Worship is not a one-time decision, it is a daily examination.
This is the year I learned to embrace communion in a deeper way.
Not as a ritual, not as something routine, but as a sacred invitation to remember, to return, to realign at the table. It became less about a moment in a service and more about a posture of the heart, it redefined how I lead and serve and who I invite to the table.
This is the year I learned that releasing is not losing.
Letting go felt like failure at times, like something was slipping through my hands, but in reality it was an act of trust. God was not asking me to abandon something, but to place it back into His hands. And there is a difference. Releasing made space for healing, for clarity, and for what is next.
This is the year I learned that some things behind me will always feel unresolved, and that does not mean they are wasted.
There are parts of this year I still do not understand, parts that still feel heavy, parts that still feel impossible. But I am learning that not everything needs immediate resolution to still have eternal value.
Some things are meant to be remembered, not rushed.
So here I am, almost forty-five, looking back at everything behind me, the hard, the holy, the unfinished, the still impossible, and instead of turning away, I am choosing to remember. Because Deuteronomy 8 reminds me that it was not just the victories that mattered, it was the wilderness too.
And maybe that is why the tattoo is on the back of my arm.
Not everything behind me needs to be understood, but it does need to be remembered.
Onward.