I’m thinking about my vacation bible school memories this morn. The circle stories and storytellers … the crafts … theme songs like ‘This is My Father’s World’, Nibor’s recreation-red rover; duck, duck, goose; Joy Freeman’s grape Kool-Aid. (We would jump up to see into the kitchen window as we turned the corner in Bethel’s hallway to see if she was the stirrer – I feel sure she doubled the sugar, mmm!). Memories.
You know, around the entire globe, every ancient culture has had records of rituals and history. Some records are extensive. Others are pieced together with dinosaur bones, leaving us to guess the missing pieces, and passed down treasures:
Killing off the artist and the story tellers as our civilization fast-tracks in the name of progress is a killing off a holy class. It makes my heart hurt. The singers, the keepers of the story, dancers, musicians, poets, craftsmen … all those who have the ability to move the the souls and the spirits of people are at risk. It is in traditions, like VBS and Sunday School, and making time for our people that the bones of our culture are carried in the ark and delivered right into our own time.
Blessed memories, Sweetheart – our memories.
Our stories of God Almighty’s hand on our people.
Keeping them sacred requires you and me to be intentional in sharing them.
My friend, if we don’t do it, who will?
Share a God memory in your life.
Plan another for tomorrow.
Go to bed.
‘These words that I am giving you today are to be in your heart. Repeat them to your children. Talk about them when you sit in your house and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up.’ (Deuteronomy 6:6, 7 HCSB)