My dad was born in 1899 and grew up in a Chicago that had dirt roads and wooden sidewalks. The women wore floor-length dresses, and ordinary folk didn’t own cars, telephones, or electric anything. Most people never traveled farther than the blocks of their own ethnic neighborhoods, and national election results were announced with fireworks.

My sister, brother, and I heard fascinating tales about Dad’s growing up years and hoped to preserve them for generations to come. Video cameras weren’t available in the early ’80’s, but we did have cassette players, so we decided to record his remembrances as we followed him to each of his childhood homes and neighborhoods, taking pictures along the way to accompany the tape. No one was more thrilled about this than him.

Years after Dad died, we did something similar with Mom, and today Mary and I talked about our own children, wondering if they’d be interested in preserving our histories as we had with our parents. This morning we decided to make a preliminary tour of the pertinent sights from our younger days, planning how we might organize the information. At each house from our pasts, we knocked on the door and walked around the property. No one was home.

Our last stop was Nate’s and my first house, beautifully maintained since we’d last lived there 37 years ago. The owner, working at home, answered our knock and, after hearing why we were interested, enthusiastically invited us in.

Although the house had been reconfigured in several minor ways, it was much the same. In the upstairs bathroom I recognized the tiny floor tiles and old toilet and tub. “High quality,” the man said. “No need to replace them.” I looked at the tub and remembered the early morning in 1973 when I sat on the edge of it trying to decide if I was in labor or not, and several hours later, we became parents.

As we walked through each room, old memories flooded my mind and Mary’s, too. The man seemed interested and asked us endless questions about the house. We left promising to send photos from the 1970’s and the original house listing.

Why is it so much fun to rehash the old days? Maybe it’s a validation of the path we’ve walked. Maybe it’s a longing to go back, to be young again. Or maybe it’s gratitude that we don’t have to.

As Mary and I talked between stops, we shared remembrances, some sweet, some bittersweet, and decided the best approach was to count the blessings rather than the sorrows. Part of that was identifying where God had interjected his influence and changed the course of events.

We talked of how he’d directed Dad’s and Mom’s lives, how he continued by guiding ours, and how he’s lovingly touching our children the same way. “And if you forget everything else,” God said, “remember that.”

“Remember the former things, those of long ago; I am God, and there is no other; I am God, and there is none like me.” (Isaiah 46:9)