We’re heading out for a Florida vacation today. "We" includes myself, my kids, my mom, and my nephew (who’s along for the ride, whether he volunteered or not). In just a few hours, our apartment will be buzzing with last-minute packing, flying flip-flops, and someone inevitably yelling, “Where’s the sunscreen?” as we unplug from real life for a little while. Adventures await us, including swimming with dolphins, but I’m even more curious about the unexpected ones God might have in store.
You’d think, as a Type A person, I’d be packed and ready a week ago. Nope. Never am. I have this bizarre habit of packing the morning of a trip. Without fail, I forget something. Once, I flew to Canada for a business presentation and only realized, too late, that I hadn’t packed any professional pants. I was presenting in the morning and stuck in jeans at night, panic-shopping for overpriced slacks like a woman on a mission. I found some. I paid triple what they were worth. I've never been so happy to hand over my credit card.
Meanwhile, my son has been packing for two weeks. As a brain cancer survivor, his memory isn’t always reliable, and he carries that awareness with such quiet determination. We’ve packed and repacked his bag, checking everything twice. It’s a slow, careful ritual that shows how far he’s come, and how fiercely he wants to be prepared. You’d think that would inspire me to pack my own bag early. But no, some habits are just weirdly persistent.
I suppose that’s the thing about vacations. You can forget a charger, a swimsuit, even pants, and still find your way to peace. And that’s exactly what I’m looking forward to: real peace. I’ve rented a house right on the beach, and I fully intend to sit on the back deck, let the sound of the waves do their thing, and just be. I’ll probably write a lot, because when I have downtime that’s what I do. Writing isn’t just something I enjoy; it’s how I process life. I don’t write for the sake of words. I write to capture a moment, to mark a memory, to hold onto a feeling before it slips away.
Maybe that’s why I connect so deeply with the writers of the Bible, especially the ones who penned the Gospels. If I had walked with Jesus, I would’ve been scribbling down every detail I could, trying to preserve the awe, the wonder, the ordinary moments when heaven touched earth. I often wish they’d included more. What did Jesus’ voice sound like? What expression crossed His face when He healed someone? How did the disciples feel—really feel—in those quiet, in-between moments?
Sometimes I imagine those scenes myself, filling in the gaps with wonder. And even though I wish for more details, I also wonder how they did it. How did they capture the Spirit of God, the unexplainable, the miraculous, with mere words? Maybe they didn’t have the right words either. Maybe they just wrote what they could, trusting that the Spirit would fill in the rest.
That’s what I’ll be doing this week: writing, wondering, worshiping. And probably forgetting a toothbrush. But I think I’ll be okay.
The Storyteller in the Shadows
Luke wasn’t one of the original twelve. He didn’t sit at the Last Supper, feel the sea spray on the Galilean shore, or hear Jesus’ voice rise above the crowds. He was a Gentile, a physician, and likely came to faith after the resurrection. And yet, God wrote him into the story.
Not as a preacher. Not as a miracle-worker.
But as a storyteller.
Luke opens his Gospel with intention and humility:
“Many have undertaken to draw up an account of the things that have been fulfilled among us... With this in mind, since I myself have carefully investigated everything from the beginning, I too decided to write an orderly account for you... so that you may know the certainty of the things you have been taught.”
— Luke 1:1–4
Luke wasn’t satisfied with secondhand summaries. He didn’t scribble haphazardly. He investigated. He interviewed. He traced the thread of the Messiah from birth to resurrection with precision, because truth demands accuracy, and because he knew this wasn’t just a story.
It was the story.
He walked dusty roads to find those who had walked with Jesus. He sat with Mary, maybe. With Peter. With Mark. He asked, “What was it like?” and listened with reverence. He captured the wonder of those who had touched the hem of Jesus’ robe so that people like us, centuries and miles away, could still be changed by it.
And then came Rome.
The second imprisonment. Not house arrest, but a dungeon. Cold. Cramped. Unforgiving. Somewhere beneath the city’s polished stone and political frenzy, Paul sat awaiting execution. The floor was damp. The air sour. Hope seemed a stranger in the dark corners of that cell.
But Luke was there.
Not as a prisoner, but as a companion. As the friend who stayed when others scattered. As the last one standing beside the man whose faith had flipped the world on its head.
The lamplight is fading.
It’s low now, just a soft orange glow dancing against the damp stone walls. The flame flickers every time the wind sneaks in through the cracks above. Shadows stretch and shiver across the floor. Cold creeps along the ground like fog.
Luke hunches close beside the little light, the hem of his cloak bunched around him to fight the chill. A worn scroll is unrolled across his lap, already filled with delicate lines of script. His hands are stained with ink. One smudge runs up his wrist. His knuckles ache.
His fingers tremble, not from fear, but from the weight of urgency pressing down on his chest. He dips the quill again. The oil in the lamp is running low. Time is short. The words must live on.
Across from him, Paul rests against the curved wall of the prison, shoulders slumped, his breath measured. The chains around his ankles lie quiet. His body knows what's ahead. The skin at his temples is dark, his beard grayer than ever. Scars cross his back like a map of suffering. But his eyes? His eyes still burn. Still alive. Still fixed on glory.
His voice is low. Gravelly. But each word is carved from granite.
“Tell them…”
A pause.
“I have fought the good fight.”
Luke leans forward, quill poised, heart cracking with every syllable.
“I have finished the race.”
He writes the words slowly, reverently. His eyes sting, not just from the smoke, but from the knowing.
“I have kept the faith.”
This isn’t just history.
This is legacy.
This is the gospel of suffering well.
Luke, who had spent so many years gathering stories, now realizes he’s writing the final chapter of his dearest friend’s life. And he will not get it wrong.
He writes, not for glory, but for truth.
Not for applause, but for eternity.
Because someone must remember the miracles.
What an absolute honor as a writer, as a believer, and as a friend. Just imagining the moment when Paul utters those words to Luke brings a tear to my eyes. Can you imagine more heroic words? They are perfection, and no doubt formed by the Holy Spirit.
Now Luke, the one who had always been the observer, has become part of the story himself. The man who once wrote in third person—“they went, they did, they saw”—now writes from within.
“We stayed. We watched. We believed.”
The end was near. Paul knew. Luke knew. Everyone knew. Nero’s Rome was no place for mercy and there would be no dramatic escape. No surprise pardon. Only the sword.
But Luke stayed.
He watched Paul say his final goodbyes. He prayed with him. Maybe he held his hand. Maybe he followed the guards with tear-blurred eyes as they led the great apostle away. And then, he kept writing because the story wasn’t over. The Gospel doesn’t end in shadows. It ends in light.
Though tradition is unclear, many believe Luke died at 84 years of age in Greece. Some say peacefully. Others say martyred, hanged from an olive tree. Either way, there’s no flashy ending to his life. Just a quiet faithfulness. Just a scroll filled with words that would echo into eternity.
He gave his life, not to be seen, but so Jesus could be seen.
Luke was never the center of the scene. But he was the recorder. The witness.
The pen in God’s hand.
And so are we.
We may not have been there when Jesus broke the bread or calmed the sea.
But we are part of the story.
When we tell others what He’s done in our lives… when we write, speak, love, forgive,
we become like Luke.
Faithful witnesses. Sacred scribes. Bearers of a Gospel that still changes the world. You don’t have to have walked with Jesus to walk for Him.
You just have to stay.
To listen.
And to write it down, if you choose.
The Writer at the Water’s Edge
So this week, I’ll sit by the ocean and write.
The waves will roll in, the dolphins may swim by (hopefully!), and the sun will warm the pages of my notebook. But in the back of my mind, I’ll be thinking about a different writer...one in a prison cell, ink-stained and battle-worn, giving the world one last gift.
And I’ll remember: there’s power in the quiet.
There’s purpose in the writing.
And there’s a place in the story for people like me.
Every story of Christ, every miracle, every moment of His presence in our lives, deserves reflection. Even the small ones. Especially the small ones. You don’t have to be a writer to honor them. Mary didn’t write them down, she pondered them in her heart. We’re called to do the same. To hold space for what God has done and sit with the sacred and let it shape us.
Your story, your memories, your witness, it all matters.
It matters to your family, to your friends, to someone scrolling through the dark needing a reminder that God is still good.
And it matters to heaven.
Luke wasn’t a central figure in the Bible. He wasn’t in the spotlight. But his faithfulness brought the Gospel to billions. Billions. He wasn’t the one performing the miracles, he was the one making sure we didn’t forget them. And because he did, we remember and believe.
The storytellers matter.
The ones who carry the light, not just with sermons and stages, but with journals and whispered prayers. The ones who repeat His love and His miracles, even when it feels like no one’s listening. It matters more than we know. Not just in this life, but in eternity.
So whether you're writing it down, sharing it over coffee, or simply holding it quietly in your heart:
Don’t forget the stories.
Don’t stop telling them.
They’re how the world remembers.