Recently, when I was at the newly renovated Holy Etchmiadzin Cathedral, my eyes caught sight of three simple crosses carved into the eastern wall. These weren’t carved by famous artists or important people but by ordinary pilgrims who made their way here many centuries ago.

These crosses, along with several others found throughout the cathedral, are known as Pilgrim’s Crosses. They don’t carry the intricate designs or beauty we might see on our traditional khachkars, those ornate cross-stones. These crosses weren’t about impressing anyone; they were about expression—an outpouring of love, a prayer etched in stone, a hope left in the walls of God’s house.

A British weekly magazine has conducted a psychological survey of players in symphony orchestras. This shows that brass and string players usually have bad opinions of each other. Woodwind players, especially oboists, are considered as neurotics by their colleagues in the orchestra. Violin and viola players have uneasy, mutually deprecatory attitudes.

The wonder is that people who tend to be mutually hostile to each other can produce an effect of order and harmony. The moment the conductor lifts his baton, all these emotions are set apart. At that moment, only one thing counts: the success of the concert.

Recently, I was going through some old files, and I stumbled upon my childhood album—full of pictures from years ago. There were snapshots of family gatherings, school events, special moments with friends, and even some baby photos of me and my brother. Each photo brought back memories, and I found myself smiling, thinking about how God had blessed me over the years. It warmed my heart all over again.

Isn’t it amazing how we hold onto those cherished moments? We capture them, put them in an album, and when we open it, it takes us back. It’s like time-traveling to a place where joy was overflowing, where life felt lighter, where love was all around. In a beautiful way, God also has His own way of treasuring memories.