The summer I graduated from high school, I landed a job as the “kitchen boy” at the new church camp in Springville—Camp Covenant Mountain. The camp had only been open for one season before I arrived. I lived in a tiny cabin tucked behind the mess hall, sharing one side with the other kitchen boy while the two cooks lived on the other.

I remember it now as pure fun. I was young, strong, and full of energy. Hauling heavy tables and chairs every day, mopping the floors, and washing endless stacks of dishes didn’t feel like hard work back then—though I know my back wouldn’t survive an attempt to lift one of those tables today. I quickly learned the ropes of running the industrial-sized Hobart dishwashers, and my hands grew tough enough to handle the steaming hot plates as I stacked them back on the shelves for the next meal.

One of the absolute best perks of the gig was that I could eat all I wanted. I’ll never forget the night we served spaghetti. The kitchen crew always ate after the campers were finished and the dishes were washed. That night, emboldened by a teenager’s appetite, I decided I could clean out an entire serving platter full of spaghetti. The head cook, a sweet grandmotherly public-school dietician, ran the kitchen alongside her husband, the camp maintenance man who could build or repair absolutely anything. At their request, we affectionately called them “Ma” and “Pa.”

As I walked up to the giant pot to load up my serving platter, Ma looked at me and asked what on earth I was doing. When I told her my grand plan, she smiled and simply said, “Don’t make yourself sick.” You might expect this story to end with an emergency room visit, but the reality is much less dramatic. I made it about halfway through the mountain of pasta, realized my limits, and wisely called it quits. I didn’t make myself sick, but I certainly learned a lesson in humility.

Decades later at Kirkwood, I find myself still gathered around dining tables, but now my favorite part of the meal is listening to the incredible stories our residents tell. Scripture frequently reminds us of the sacred value of looking back. In Deuteronomy 32:7, we are told: “Remember the days of old; consider the generations long past. Ask your father and he will tell you, your elders, and they will explain to you.”

The stories our residents share are a living testament to that truth. They speak of childhood adventures, high school heartbreaks, time spent serving in the military, leaving home for college, and the beautiful early years of marriage when newlyweds had little money but survived on love and faith anyway. Many of these stories make me laugh until I cry.

I recently heard someone repeat a phrase his father-in-law used to say before launching into a narrative: “Don’t stop me if you’ve heard this one before—I love telling it.”

There is a profound holy duty in telling and holding onto our stories. Telling them keeps the memories alive. Remembering the stories keeps us close to the people within them. Our memories are a precious gift from God, connecting our past, present, and future in His enduring love, because the people who fill them are so deeply precious to us. Camp Covenant Mountain in Springville holds a special place in my memory.

Peace,

Cary