Remember When…?

Sunday Teaching

May 24

Written By Greg McNichols

The full video of this teaching is available at the bottom of this post and at this link.

REMEMBER WHEN

"Remember when we got the keys to the house?"

"Remember when we held her for the first time?"

"Remember when we got to the campsite late, couldn’t set up the tent in the dark, and ended up sleeping under the stars?"

Some of our best stories start with "Remember when…" And more often than not, they come with a smile—because we're about to tell a story that mattered. They’re the highlight reels. The moments when something beautiful broke through.

Other times, “Remember when…” leads us back to a season we didn’t think we’d make it through.

“Remember when we couldn’t make rent three months in a row?”

“Remember when you filled out twenty applications and never got an interview?”

“Remember when you were failing poly-sci class at mid-terms?”

And we still smile now—not because it wasn’t hard, but because we’re not there anymore. The difficulty didn’t get the last word.

That’s the thing about “Remember when…”, it helps us relive the joy—or remember the rescue.

And that’s exactly what we find when we open Book Two of the Psalms, chapters 42–72. It’s full of “Remember when” moments. Psalm after psalm reaches back—into Egypt, through the wilderness, into battles and seasons of waiting—and says, “Look what God did.”

Psalm 68 is one of the clearest examples. It’s a full-body retelling of God rescuing the Israelites from Egyptian slavery—from the march out of Egypt, to the thunder at Sinai, to the triumphant arrival in Canaan, the land God had promised. The song is written like a bold “Remember when…” It retells the story in a way that makes you want to sing.

But even the quieter psalms in this section—Psalm 66, 69, 71—they carry that same thread. Someone is looking back, anchoring themselves in what God has done so they can stand steady in what they’re facing now.

Because that’s what “Remember when…” does—it ties the past to the present. It says, “God was faithful then. He’ll be faithful now.” Book Two of the Psalms reads like a spiritual journal full of fingerprints—evidence that God rescues, restores, speaks… and keeps showing up. Each of those stories becomes fuel for the next season of faith.

TELL THE BIBLICAL STORIES OF GOD’S FAITHFULNESS

The psalmists knew what we sometimes forget: if you don’t tell the story, you lose the lesson. If you don’t remember where He met you, you might miss where He’s showing up now.

Psalm 68 doesn’t just say, “God helped us.” It paints the whole picture. “O God, when you led your people out from Egypt… when you marched through the dry wasteland…” (v.7). You can almost hear the crunch of dry ground underfoot. The psalmist isn’t imagining—he’s remembering.

Now, you might be wondering—was the one who wrote this actually at the Exodus?

Great question. No, the psalmist wasn’t physically there. Psalm 68 is traditionally attributed to David, who lived centuries after those events. So when he writes, “When you led your people out from Egypt…” it’s not firsthand memory—it’s communal memory.

In the Hebrew mindset, remembering wasn’t just about personal experience—it was about identifying with your people’s story. When they remembered the Exodus, they weren’t saying, “Look what God did for them.” They were saying, “Look what God did for us.”

That’s what many of the Psalms do. They remind us that we’re part of the story being retold. We didn’t walk through the sea or hear the thunder at Sinai—but those moments weren’t just for them. God’s deliverance back then was a down payment on every act of deliverance that would follow. His rescue of Israel is a promise extended to anyone who would ever come to believe.

So, know the stories in Scripture. Learn them. Speak them. If we want to lead people to Jesus, we need to carry the stories of what God has done—not to impress, but to reveal who He is.

TELL YOUR PERSONAL STORIES OF GOD’S FAITHFULNESS

Psalm 71:16–19

16 I will praise your mighty deeds, O Sovereign Lord. I will tell everyone that you alone are just.

17 O God, you have taught me from my earliest childhood, and I constantly tell others about the wonderful things you do.

18 Now that I am old and gray,do not abandon me, O God. Let me proclaim your power to this new generation, your mighty miracles to all who come after me.

19 Your righteousness, O God, reaches to the highest heavens. You have done such wonderful things. Who can compare with you, O God?

The psalmist in Psalm 71 isn’t just sitting around telling Bible stories—he’s looking around his own life. He’s old, yes. But he’s still scanning the room. Still watching the generation coming up behind him. Still asking, “Who’s going to know what God has done in my life if I don’t say something?”

This isn’t soft reflection. It’s personal storytelling on purpose. He’s seen God’s faithfulness up close—from childhood to gray hair—and he refuses to go quiet now. He’s not asking for comfort in his later years. He’s asking for volume and an audience. For the chance to proclaim God’s power one more time.

And here’s the challenge: if you’re still breathing, you’re still called. Called to speak. Called to pass it on.

That’s what Psalm 71:16–19 is about—an old man with fire still in his bones, showing us how to finish faithful.

LIVE STORIES THE NEXT GENERATION WILL RETELL OF GOD’S FAITHFULNESS

Psalm 71 doesn’t stop with memory. It pushes forward with vision: “Let me proclaim your power to this new generation, your mighty miracles to all who come after me.” (v. 18)

It’s not just about looking back. It’s about what we’re still living. Still doing. Still proclaiming.

And here’s where things get real.

One of the quiet tragedies is how many of us have stopped collecting new stories—no fresh stories of God’s faithfulness, no recent steps of faith. No movement—just maintenance.

Life turns into car payments and calendar management.

Dance lessons and home repairs.

We hold our faith close, like something private and polite, while the people around us try to figure life out without Jesus—and we just kind of hope they’ll pick it up through osmosis.

But they won’t.

Because how can they hear unless someone tells them?

This isn’t about guilt—it’s about invitation.

A mirror, not a hammer.

What if your life started producing stories your kids—or their kids—would retell?

Not stories of how busy you were, but how bold you became.

Not just stories of stuff you bought, but people you brought into the kingdom.

Stories of how you showed up early to make coffee and stayed late to pray with someone.

Stories of how you gave when it didn’t make sense on paper.

Stories of how you sat across from someone who didn’t believe a word of it—and told them why you believe.