Seventy years is an entire lifetime. For Queen Elizabeth II it was the longest reign, not only in the United Kingdom but in the history of the world. When she died last week at age 96, it was a globe-riveting event. And no matter how much we paid attention, or didn’t, important history was still being made. Unprecedented history.

In the Bible, there’s always the beautiful application of every story, and of every character. Nothing of narrative is ever wasted.

The Author would have it no other way.

As American students prepared to end their summer vacation and return to the classroom, David McCullough died at the age of 89. He was one of the greatest historians this country will ever know. Noble, honest, fair, balanced, and thoughtful, McCullough rose with an inbred grace above the poisonous divisions of our time to teach us why we must understand and love its history if we are to better understand and love America.

The sky was clear. The stars were bright. The air was still. It was a beautiful, serene night in the desert.

His wife was asleep. His servants were asleep. The animals were asleep. Only he was awake, stirred by a voice clear, resonant, gentle, and yet authoritative.

“Abraham!”

He was short, a little over five feet tall. He was slight, barely 100 pounds. You wouldn’t pick him out in a crowd without effort. He’d likely be in the back of the room, dressed neatly in a black suit.

Reinforcing his unobtrusive appearance was a shy, serious, and quiet temperament. He spoke barely above a whisper. He was deliberative, circumspect, and judicious, careful in what he thought and said, and how he said it.

If you listened intently, he’d be worth your attempt to hear him.

The malaise of pessimism and angst cuts across party lines. Republicans, Democrats, and Independents are all depressed about the present national condition. They may have different reasons, but they are all in the dumps about the United States.

The sun was setting gently across the broad Pacific. In its breathtaking beauty and confident serenity, it was a majestic and powerful sight.

It was, perhaps, this peaceful sunset, together with the relentless violence and destructive contagion of war, that led the great man to take pen in hand on this evening. Just harrowing days earlier, he and his family were crossing turbulent and dangerous waters in a small PT boat, surrounded by the enemy. He had found solace and protection on this island nation.

They gathered in the small boarding house on Market Street. They sat down in high-backed wooden chairs around a simple wooden table. There was no air-conditioning to sooth the summer heat. In the descending rays of the late afternoon, a candle was their light. To them was given the awesome responsibility to craft a declaration; the “power to begin the world over again.”

He could have had anything. All he had to do was ask. It would be his.

Few people have ever had such an opportunity. No conditions. No expectations. No restraints.

“What do you want? Ask, and I will give it to you!”

It was a breath-taking generosity.

America was not handed freedom as a gift. Liberty was not bartered at a treaty table. This country was not bequeathed independence by a benevolent tyrant. America fought for freedom.

Our nation was born in the crucible of war. Independence was declared and liberty secured because courageous men and women chose to risk a “leap in the dark” over the inevitable dismal prospect of subjugation.

It happened from time to time.

Someone in the audience would ask what he thought was a trick question.

This was supposed to be some kind of test.

The trap nearly always caught the trapper.

It went off like a fire alarm in the night.

It thundered across the legal, political and cultural landscape of an already deeply divided nation.

For many, it was the death-knell of women’s rights; for others, a liberty bell of life.

It was a trail of tears. Too bitter and heartbreaking for words.

Three women—one older, two younger—united by the deaths of their husbands, were traveling to a new home, and a new beginning.

It hadn’t been easy, nor would it be easy now.

He was born premature.

His mother wrapped him in warm wool blankets. It was shortly before Christmas.

The infant neither cried nor opened his eyes until his original due date arrived when, as if on cue, he suddenly did both.

Sometimes I don’t get it. I just don’t.

It reminds me of what Winston Churchill said of Russia: “A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.”

My definitions don’t fit. My reasoning is defied; my hopes and expectations unrealized, and my assumptions overturned.

It makes no sense.

How odd of God.

It’s still dark. The air is cool. There’s not a sound. It’s peaceful here—and beautiful. The large gnarled trees form a canopy over the well-trodden paths.

The sun would soon throw its brilliant rays across this rocky ground and illumine the mountainside.

A huge stone had been rolled across the entrance of the tomb two days earlier. This grave must be sealed—not to prevent a resurrection but to guard against an insurrection. To stop ardent disciples from stealing the body and claiming he’d come back to life. Guards had been dispatched to stand watch.

A single word of encouragement can do more to bring change and improvement, and renewed joy and determination, than all the carping criticism ever uttered by those who sit safely in the stands of life, far from the arena.

He was powerful. He was famous. He was celebrated. He was a fearless leader of men.

He was sick.

General Naaman was a leper. The dreaded skin disease was serious, painful and fatal. Thousands of years ago, there was no cure for leprosy. We learn of Naaman in the fifth chapter of II Kings, in the Old Testament of the Bible.

They were out to have a good time. It was a day trip with family and friends. A chance to create some memories.

Three young people from California—all in their twenties—were hiking in Yosemite National Park. They climbed up the steep and slippery Mist Trail until they reached Vernal Fall. It is one of Yosemite’s most popular and spectacular waterfalls.

It was a crystal clear, beautiful day.

There was a metal guardrail. It had been placed there by park authorities to keep visitors away from the swift-moving water of the Merced River. Just 25 feet from the precipice of the fall, the young people crossed over the guardrail and entered the water.

He was labeled, pitied, dismissed, ignored and ostracized. Crippled was the word—and the stigma. “Disabled” and “challenged” hadn’t been invented. He was a young man with a difficult name and a difficult life.

Mephibosheth. He was royalty—once upon a time.