What Do We Do With History?

Grace does not erase the past. It redeems it.

History can be painful. But we can’t erase it. No matter how much we might want to go back and fix something, or rewrite the story, the truth is — it happened.

There are earthquakes in life. The kind that shake everything you thought was stable — the earthquake of divorce, of broken trust, of disappointment. All of it becomes part of the story, whether we like it or not.

Sometimes we’re ashamed of our history. Sometimes there are things we wish we could undo, words we wish we could take back. And sometimes, it’s not even about what we did — it’s about what we were part of. A church, a small group, a Bible study — something that once felt sacred. Then something goes wrong. The people scatter. The history splinters or disappears altogether.

There are times we get pushed out. Labeled. Silenced. Even called heretics for asking questions. And people we once loved — people we trusted — suddenly aren’t allowed to talk to us. Or they simply choose not to.

I remember a church I went to once. The pastor’s daughter got married and later divorced. When they were married, her father spoke so warmly of the young man — said he was wonderful. But after the divorce, they erased him. Acted as if he had never existed. In his place, there was only darkness. Stories were whispered. And I remember thinking how quickly we rewrite history when it hurts too much to tell it honestly.

When we tell our own stories, we do that too. We pick and choose. We leave some things out. We highlight the parts that make us look better. We try to clean up the mess before anyone sees it. But when we do that, we lose something sacred — the chance for redemption to shine through. Grace doesn’t need a perfect story. It just needs the real one.

Sometimes even our memories betray us. We remember things wrong. Or remember things that never happened at all. A thought takes root and becomes a false truth. When I wrote about my own story, I once found a photograph that told me I’d gotten it wrong — that I was older than I thought during that moment I had written about. It humbled me. Reminded me that memory itself needs grace.

And then there are churches that try to erase their history completely — letting people go, silencing them with money and non-disclosure agreements. As if truth can be buried and forgotten. But it always finds a way to rise.

So what do we do with history — with all its fractures, false starts, and fragile truths?

Maybe the answer is this: we don’t erase it. We hold it. We let grace meet it. And we trust that redemption still knows how to find its way through the cracks.