I used to answer this question so differently. When asked what my life would look like in an alternate universe, I’d immediately imagine something dreamy and romantic—me, as a well-known writer with books displayed in every bookstore window, sipping flat whites in my own cozy library café, surrounded by shelves of poetry, soft lights, and rescued animals curled up in corners. I’d imagine inspiring people, signing books, owning a home filled with plants and purpose. And that version of me still exists in my heart—it’s beautiful, and still part of what I hope for. But recently, when I asked myself this question again, quietly and honestly, I felt a shift. I didn’t want to write the version that sounded impressive. I wanted to write the one that felt true. And that truth surprised me.

Because deep down, what I really long for is not applause or fame—it’s a life of presence.

A life where the unnoticed is noticed. A life that reflects the heart of God in the smallest, quietest ways.

So in this alternate universe, I am not famous. I’m not in the spotlight. I don’t own a café or run a business.
I am simply

the keeper of forgotten things.

In that life, I live in a small, quiet town—one that doesn’t try to be anything it’s not. There’s a narrow road lined with trees that lead to a tiny building that looks like it might collapse, but doesn’t. Inside that building is a museum unlike any other. It doesn’t hold artifacts from history or paintings worth millions. It holds pieces of people’s lives—things the world has forgotten, but heaven never did. A hair tie left in a hospital drawer. A crumpled note with the words I’m sorry scrawled in a rush. A wedding invitation that was never sent. A child’s shoe that never got a pair. These objects don’t speak out loud, but they echo. And if you listen close enough, you’ll hear stories that still deserve to be remembered.

I don’t run the museum with strategy or ambition. I care for it the way you care for something sacred. People walk in on rainy days, or when their hearts feel too heavy. Some find items that strangely reflect something they’ve lost. Others just sit in the quiet, grateful to be somewhere that doesn’t expect them to smile. I don’t guide them. I don’t preach. I offer tea, tissues, time. And as they linger, I pray silently—for comfort, for peace, for the soft restoration that only God can give. Because this isn’t just a museum. It’s a sanctuary. And I am not just a caretaker. I am a witness to the holiness of memory. A steward of tenderness. A reminder that nothing truly meaningful is ever wasted—not in this life, and certainly not in the next.

This life has taught me that faithfulness is sometimes mistaken for invisibility.

We grow up thinking purpose looks like stages, microphones, and big gestures. But faith—real, enduring faith—often shows up in unseen places. In the way you sit with someone’s silence. In how you remember their story when they’ve forgotten their worth. In how you choose to stay soft in a world that constantly hardens. In this alternate life, I am not serving thousands. I am serving one at a time. And yet I believe, with all my heart, that God is in it. That He delights in smallness. That He chooses the quiet rooms to pour His presence into.

Outside the museum, the world keeps moving. But inside, time slows down. There’s a cat named Solace who always seems to know who needs her. I keep journals of prayer requests left by visitors—some scribbled, some carefully written. I write letters too—handwritten notes that say things like, “God didn’t forget you,” or “This pain doesn’t disqualify you from joy,” or “Some stories are still sacred, even if no one clapped for them.” I tuck them into books, into drawers, into the cracks where light gets in. I never know who finds them, but I trust that they reach the hearts they’re meant for. And maybe that’s what faith really is: planting seeds you may never see bloom, and believing anyway.

This version of me doesn’t need to prove anything. I don’t need to hustle to be valuable. I don’t need to explain why I feel things so deeply, or why I remember the tiniest details. I’ve always been sensitive—sometimes painfully so—but in this life, that sensitivity becomes a gift. A calling. An offering. I’ve stopped asking God for a louder voice. I’ve started asking Him to make my silence sacred. And I’ve learned that the love I offer quietly still matters. That my presence—however unseen it feels—is never wasted in His eyes.

So if you’re reading this, and you’ve ever felt like your life is too small, your pace too slow, your dreams too tender for this world—please know: you are not forgotten. Your kindness is not invisible. Your story is not over.

God is keeping track of every tear, every act of quiet love, every time you chose softness instead of bitterness. You don’t have to be famous to be faithful. You don’t have to be loud to be worthy. And you don’t have to be seen by the world to be held by God.

Maybe, like me, you’ll realize that your deepest calling isn’t to become someone impressive.
It’s to become someone present.
To be the one who remembers when others forget.
To be the safe place. The stillness. The gentle light.

Maybe, in some way…
You were always meant to be the keeper of forgotten things.

–Anj ❤