Out of the Fog

From Cloudy to Clear

Recently, I had cataract surgery. Before the procedure, I didn’t realize how distorted my world had become. Everything was bathed in a yellow haze, like a dim filter I couldn’t wipe away. To me, this was just how the world looked.

But after the surgery? It was like someone peeled off the film.

The colors hadn’t changed. The vibrancy was always there.
I changed.
How I saw changed.
And that made all the difference.

That’s what gratitude does.
That’s what building altars does.

It doesn’t alter your circumstances, it recalibrates your vision. You begin to see what was always there, but was dulled by disappointment, weariness, hurt or fear.

What helps you find the light when the shadows grow long?

Not a to-do list.
Not even a vision board or a clean slate.
You start with a memory.

Because when life has been scorched by loss, trauma, or pain; when everything feels reduced to rubble and you can't see the beauty and wonder around you, it's not a "strategy" that let's you see again. It's remembering that you've seen beauty before. That light has pierced the darkness, that goodness has walked your way.

But here’s the problem: we forget.

We easily forget the times when God showed up. We forget the miracles, the answered prayers, the small moments of provision that carried us through.

That’s why we need altars.

When the Stones Speak

In the Old Testament, after God parted the Jordan River and the Israelites crossed on dry ground, Joshua commanded the people to set up twelve stones as a memorial. A visual reminder. A place future generations could point to and ask, “What happened here?”

And the answer would come: God was faithful. Right here. Don’t forget it.

“In the future, when your children ask you, ‘What do these stones mean?’ tell them... the Lord your God did to the Jordan what he had done to the Red Sea… He did this so that all the peoples of the earth might know…”
—Joshua 4:6–7, 23–24

These weren’t just monuments to the past, they were anchors for the future. Because, let’s be honest, memory fails when sorrow is fresh. Gratitude shrinks in the shadow of grief.

Unless you’ve marked it.

Journaling as an Altar

Most of us don’t stack stones in the backyard anymore (though honestly, there’s probably a niche Etsy market for that). But we do have journals. Photos. Notes in the margins of our Bibles. Moments captured in ink that serve as altars of remembrance.

King David did this in the Psalms. When he was overwhelmed, he returned to what he had written, to what he knew.

“I will remember the deeds of the Lord;
yes, I will remember your miracles of long ago.”
—Psalm 77:11

David didn’t always feel strong. He wasn’t always confident. But he remembered—and that remembrance reshaped his reality.

When we write it down, we give our future selves a gift: the ability to look back and see, He was here. He was good. I am still standing because of it.

The next time you’re in the dark, the next time the color starts to fade, you’ll have something to guide you back, your own record of God’s faithfulness, echoing back to you in ink and memory.

For Those Who Come After

Maybe the most sacred part of all this? Altars aren’t just for us.

Joshua didn’t set up those stones for himself. He set them up for the children who would come after. For the generation that didn’t see the miracle, but desperately needed to know it happened.

Your journal may be your personal altar but, it also could be someone else’s invitation to hope. Your story of survival, of healing, of answered prayer. It might be the very thing someone else needs to believe God can do it again.

So write it down.
Mark the place.
Build the altar.

And when the next storm comes, may the stones speak louder than the thunder.