Stories That Come to Life Again

Some stories are written in ink.   Others are written on plates.

Lately, I have found myself on a quiet little journey, one that has nothing to do with deadlines, breaking news, or the rhythm of both work and the campaign trail, but everything to do with memory.

If you walked into our home, you might notice something a little different. Many of the decorative pieces you see are not something picked up from a store shelf last week. They are antique plates, platters, and bowls. Some are one of a kind. Some have small chips that hint at a life well lived. Most of them date back to the early 1800s and early 1900s.

Each one has a story.

I have always been drawn to blue and white, and green and white patterns, though I do have a few rare red and white pieces as well. Over time, they have found their place in our home, displayed on bookshelves, on plate hangers, and in cabinets. Many of these pieces are not used for meals. They are preserved, appreciated, and remembered.

But they are not the only plates that matter.

Some of my favorite pieces are not antiques at all. They are the plates my children made when they were little. I remember taking them for a Christmas activity when Cameron was just a baby and Bethany was a little older. They painted their designs, pressed their tiny handprints into the surface, and we had them fired to keep forever.

At the time, I had no idea those plates would one day fit so perfectly into the style of our home. But they do. And now they sit alongside pieces that are more than a century old.

Because in the end, it is not about the age of the piece. It is about the story it carries.

There is one story in particular that has stayed with me.

For years, I had a set of china that belonged to my great-grandparents, Mamie and Carl Reaves. It was passed down to me, and like many things we inherit, I held onto it without fully understanding what it truly meant.

Then one day, everything changed.

A storm came through Spring Hill, and in the aftermath, one of my china cabinets collapsed. Shelves gave way, and pieces of that china were broken. Pieces that had been carefully preserved for generations were suddenly gone.

I still have some of it. Enough to remember. Enough to hold onto.

Recently, I found myself in an antique store when something caught my eye.

It was a plate.

Pink. Delicate. Detailed.

There was something familiar about it, something that made me stop and take a closer look.

I knew the moment I saw the pattern that it was the same one. A small piece of paper nearby read “Queen Esther,” and it caught my attention because I had never noticed that before. When I turned the plate over, I was shocked to see that same name on the back.

In that moment, everything connected.

I realized that the china I had been holding onto, the pieces I had been trying to replace, were part of the Queen Esther pattern. A beautiful design with soft pink tones, gold accents, and what appears to be an English rose.

But more than that, it carried a name that has always meant something to me.

Queen Esther.

A woman of courage. A woman of faith. A woman placed in a position for a purpose, even when she did not fully understand it at the time.

“For such a time as this.”

That verse has always resonated with me, but in that moment, it felt different.

More personal.

I found myself wishing I could sit down with Mamie and ask her why she chose that pattern. What drew her to it. What it meant to her.

I do not remember her ever using that china. I do not remember conversations about it. But somehow, it found its way to me.

And now, I understand it in a way I never did before.

There are moments in life we do not fully understand while we are in them. Pieces we inherit. Seasons we walk through. Losses we experience.

But over time, God reveals purpose.

Sometimes through restoration.
 Sometimes through remembrance.
 And sometimes through something as simple as a name on the bottom of a plate.

Many of the pieces in our home are displayed.

Some are preserved.

And a few are used, even if only on the most meaningful days.

The Queen Esther china reminds me that what is passed down is not just meant to be kept, but to be lived with.

To be remembered.

To be understood in its time.

At the end of the day, whether it is a historic plate, a child’s handprint, or a piece of china that has survived generations, these are the things that remind us where we came from.

They ground us.

They connect us.

And sometimes, they quietly remind us who we are called to be.

If you have something like that, a piece, a story, or a tradition that still carries meaning today, I would love to hear from you.

These are your stories.

Let’s bring them to life again.