February 8, 2025: The Memory Container

Every Christmas morning, it happens on our stairwell.

Before we unwrap a single present, my kids gather for a photo. An annual tradition, a snapshot of time. And seemingly overnight, in the blink of an eye, they’ve grown from little ones to adults.

How did it happen so fast? I dunno. But the photos don’t lie.

Those same stairs hold other stories, too. Like the night my daughter, McKenzie, broke her foot on the final step. A painful moment, yet it unexpectedly led her to the man she would marry.

Amid all the change, all of life’s movements, one thing remains steady: those stairs.

When the house sits silent, when miles separate us, I sometimes pause by those empty steps and look up, wondering where everyone is and what they’re doing.

There’s something powerful about a home. They are the containers of memories. Every room, every worn floorboard, every quiet corner and scuffed wall holds the echoes of the past.

Homes are reminders of the relentless march of time. And their familiar spaces forever link us to the ones we love.

Last night, Jessica suggested we watch the movie, Here. I wasn’t too excited after reading a few negative reviews.

But wow… what an experience. Perhaps brilliant.

The film explores how time is a function of our relationship with the physical world. And how the seconds, the minutes, the decades… pass in a breath.

It’s not your typical blockbuster, but it offers a unique approach to cinematic storytelling. Art that moves the soul. Most movies are immediately forgettable. But this one? It stays.

As the last scene faded to black and the credits rolled, three thoughts grabbed me: 1) life is short 2) so live with vision 3) and allow the quietness of an old house to remind you of these things.

So here’s my suggestion: Every once in a while, put down the phone. Sit in your favorite chair. Let the walls, the furniture, the spaces speak.

Because in those memories, the past whispers:

Cherish the Now. Cherish the Here.