The Altar of Your Life

There's something deeply human about wanting a fresh start. We're eager to turn the page on difficult chapters, ready to leave behind the pain, the struggles, and the seasons we'd rather forget. But what if God never intended for us to simply erase our past? What if the very things we want to forget are exactly what we need to remember?

Throughout Scripture, remembering isn't presented as a suggestion—it's a command. Before Israel ever built cities, waged battles, or settled the Promised Land, God told them to stop and remember what He had done.

"You shall remember that the Lord your God led you all the way these forty years in the wilderness" (Deuteronomy 8:2).

Those forty years weren't exactly a vacation. They were filled with hardship, uncertainty, and wandering. Yet God commanded them to remember.

The Psalmist wrote, "I will remember the works of the Lord; surely I will remember Your wonders of old" (Psalm 77:11). Even Jesus Himself, at the Last Supper, said, "Do this in remembrance of Me" (Luke 22:19).

Remembering is tied to faith restoration during distress. It's not passive memory—it's intentional reflection. Not dwelling in defeat, but recognizing that God was present in every moment, even when we couldn't see it.

The story in Joshua 4 captures this truth beautifully. After forty years of wilderness wandering, Israel finally stood at the edge of their promise. But between them and their destiny was an impossible obstacle: the Jordan River at flood stage.

God didn't remove the river before they arrived. He didn't make their path easy. Instead, He commanded the priests carrying the Ark of the Covenant to step into the water. When their heels touched the Jordan, the waters parted and stood up in a heap, allowing the entire nation to cross on dry ground.

But here's what's remarkable: God didn't just want them to cross and forget. He commanded them to take twelve stones—one for each tribe—from the middle of the riverbed, from the exact place where the priests' feet stood firm while the nation crossed over.

Why stones from the middle? Why not from the far shore, the place of deliverance and victory?

Because the middle is where the miracle happened. The middle is the deepest part. The middle is the most dangerous place. The middle is where faith was required.

The middle represents those moments in our lives when we can't see the way forward, when the waters are piled up around us, when everything depends on God showing up. Those are the moments we're tempted to rush through and forget.

But God says, "Don't leave that place without taking something with you."

Your testimony comes from what you survived by God's grace. The stones weren't just decorative—they were sermons without words. They invited questions. They created conversations.

God gave two specific reasons for taking these stones. First, for the next generation:

"When your children ask in time to come, saying, 'What do these stones mean to you?' then you shall answer them" (Joshua 4:6-7).

It's our responsibility to make God's faithfulness evident to our children and grandchildren. Not just the polished, sanitized version of our faith, but the real stories—the times we felt weak, the moments we didn't know how we'd make it, the seasons when God showed up in undeniable ways.

We often think we're protecting our children by hiding our struggles. We give them the refrigerator-magnet theology: "Just trust God. Have faith." But we don't tell them about the tears, the fears, the times we didn't know what to do.

In doing so, we shortchange them. We rob them of seeing that faith isn't the absence of struggle—it's trusting God in the midst of it.

The story takes a sobering turn when we move from Joshua into Judges. After Joshua's death—just one generation later—Scripture records something devastating:

"Another generation arose after them who did not know the Lord nor the work which He had done for Israel" (Judges 2:10).

One generation. That's all it took.

It wasn't that God failed. The miracles were real. The victories were undeniable. But the stories stopped being told. The testimony stopped. A generation enjoyed the benefits of God without knowing the God who provided them.

When we forget, faith erodes. When we stop telling the story, spiritual memory fades.

We all face Jordan Rivers—obstacles we cannot overcome in our own strength. Seasons of uncertainty. Moments of fear. Transitions that require faith. Medical diagnoses. Financial impossibilities. Relational breakdowns.

The presence of the river doesn't mean God has abandoned you. Often, it means God is about to reveal Himself.

What feels like an obstacle often becomes a place of encounter.

God doesn't promise the absence of crossings. He promises His presence in the midst of them.

The miracle happened when the priests stepped into the water and stood firm. God didn't part the waters after they crossed—He parted them when they obeyed and stood.
Faith often requires standing steady before circumstances change.

Think about those priests standing in the middle of the Jordan with water piled up on either side. That required courage. That required trust. That required standing when everything in their natural mind said to run.

Sometimes the hardest place to have faith is when we're standing in the hardest places. But God says those are exactly the moments we need to remember.

As we enter this new year, the question isn't whether you'll face challenges. You will. The question is: What will you do with them?

Will you rush through, eager to forget and move on? Or will you stop in the middle, grab a stone, and remember that God was there?

Your story—with all its messy middle parts—is meant to be told. Not for your glory, but for His. Not to impress others, but to strengthen them.

Testimony is how faith travels through generations.

Whatever river you're facing or have recently crossed, don't leave that place without taking something with you. Grab a stone. Mark the moment. Write it down. Tell someone.

Because one day, someone you love will face their own Jordan. And when they ask, "How do I get through this?"—you'll have more than motivation to offer them.

You'll have strength. You'll have stones. You'll have proof that God is faithful.

Remember: We need strength, not just motivation. Motivation fades, but strength drawn from God's faithfulness remains.

So as you move forward, take inventory of your stones. Remember what God has brought you through. And when the opportunity comes—and it will—share your story.
Because the next generation is counting on it.