stories

"Tell me a story." I think this was the basis of my courtship with my husband. We would be sitting on a couch - in his apartment or mine or in a student lounge somewhere - with his legs stretched out over mine and he would ask for a story. And then I would tell him of something that happened when I was little, or past boyfriends, or whatever experience came to mind. He would tell his stories too. We both had relatively light-hearted and happy childhoods, so the stories were usually happy. And then we decided to have to same story for the rest of forever. And I think we are just about to the point where we know all of each other's stories. Once in a while, though, a story will come out that we don't know. I like it when that happens.

I am currently reading this book. It was recommended to Dave by a doctor and after he was done I picked it up. It is a collection of stories by a pediatrician turned grief/cancer counselor and it is full of beautiful stories of life and hope and faith and truth and, mostly, healing.

Everyone's life is a collection of stories. We all have painful stories. We all have triumphant stories. We all have stories of turmoil and stories of peace. We have stories that teach us obvious things and stories that we wonder what the lesson is for decades. As we share these stories, we connect to others. We bless their lives and our own. We give and receive and learn about ourselves and others. We learn to love - truly and deeply. We become less judgmental.

In this era of social media, I hope we don't forget to tell our stories. Blogs are wonderful for sharing stories and that is one of the reasons that I love them.  In fact, sometimes I get so caught up in strangers' stories that I forget that the people in my life that I love the most have wonderful stories that I am not hearing.

Recently we have started sharing stories around the dinner table. Dave and I take turns telling the kids things from our past. There have been a few of Dave's stories that I haven't heard yet. I love it when he tells the kids his stories, even the ones I already know. They love it too. When I tell Ana that I know how she is feeling, she wants to hear the story about it. Often it helps her deal with her emotions. 

When I was young I used to beg my mom to write down her life story. She always said that there was nothing to tell. But the stories I have heard over the years have brought a lot of strength to me. Like the time when she was pregnant with her 5th kid and my dad was writing his master's thesis. My dad had never learned to type, but Mom had so she would stay up late with him while he wrote it out by hand and she typed it. While he was writing she would lay down on the couch and sleep and then wake up to type some more. That is love. Or the time she had such a rough time handling the kids in sacrament meeting while my dad was in a bishopric or overseas or something and so afterward she went home and skipped the rest of church. I was shocked to hear that from my mother, but also relieved because she always seemed like she could handle anything and I was so far from that. Suddenly I felt like I was probably doing just fine.

I love the subtitle of the book: Stories that heal. Sharing our stories, around the world and around the dinner table, can heal our hearts, our lives and probably the world.