Let each generation tell its children of your mighty acts;

    let them proclaim your power.

I will meditate on your majestic, glorious splendor

    and your wonderful miracles.     Psalm 145:4-5

“He will remember,” the Spirit of God whispers in my ear. “He will remember this.”

My thoughts skip back to a distant time in my own young life. The sun is bright white light shining outside the open window. The white curtains blow into the room and float back in release. The sounds of ocean waves breaking against the shore are the constant - pierced by cries of seagulls. I am alone. It must be after lunch. Naptime.

I know outside the window play my older sisters, Ann and Kathy. My daddy is out there too. My mother is somewhere in the house with me. It is the end of an era. Perhaps 1959 or 60. When you drove to Florida and your daddy found a white-framed house right on the beach. The ocean breeze came through the windows and golden sand was outside your doorstep.

If I remember, he will remember this. 

He is four years old, and his joy is full and complete. He stands ankle-deep in the water and screams a primal scream out to the sea. Here, the pelicans fly in formation, the sandpipers run leaving staccato tracks while C-130s fly overhead from Eglin. Ours is a short walk through sand dunes over soft powder sand from the smallest condo we could find where we can still hear the low rumble of waves as they fall against the shore.

I still attempt to keep my parent’s schedule established a generation… no,... two generations before. Awake as soon as the sun comes up. Walk along the quiet beach to greet the day. Come back in for breakfast and coffee. Swimsuit and sunscreen. Back to the beach to play as hard as you can until the sun is too high in the sky so royal blue. Then back inside for a bath and lunch and a nap.

But I am not my parents, and he will not be me. 

In the mornings before he wakes, I keep my mind on the things of God. His promises, written down, protected, fought for, cherished, and carefully placed in my hands are my shield and my hiding place. I hold tightly and desperately to each word. I warn myself to avoid the distractions and deceits and delusions of this world around me. Otherwise, it is the crouching lion who overcame Cain and also desires to have me. It will also be waiting, ever too patient, for this four-year-old boy who will one day be a bigger boy and a man.

I am reminded to tell him the stories. Of a Savior who walked out of a grave. He informs me on Easter morning that “Jesus dies a lot. One day he died the longest time.” I can see his momma has been teaching him. I send her his response across the miles. “He really wants to understand…” she texts me back. Perhaps the stories of David and the good shepherd will be easier. Of slingshots and giants.

But God whispers, “He will remember this.” These days of innocence and joy and God’s perfect wonders of His perfect world. Of waters the color of emeralds; green and aqua and turquoise. Of minnows silver against the white sand. Of American military planes against the heavens overhead. Of warm baths and bedtime stories and being held and unconditionally, fully, intently being loved. He will remember. Teach him well.