Stories

Of course. . .that’s only in my dreams.  In my real life I come to the blog after the kids are in bed and quickly piece together the randomness that floats through my mind.  There are no deep stories that will change lives and draw people to the deepest parts of their souls.  There is just me, my blog, and the simple stories of our lives.

As simple as it is, I still believe that the simple stories matter and that is why I continue to write.  I was reminded of that today.

I’m still a kid.  When the mail comes, I can’t play it cool and wait any amount of time to grab it’s contents.  Nope, as soon as I hear the distinct Vroom of that little white mail truck pass our house I am out the door.  Sometimes, I race Charlie.  Most days I am greeted with the norm–catalogs, bills, junk.  The actual letter is a rarity these days, especially with email.  But there are uncommon days when I open the little door on the mailbox and am greeted with a surprise.

A box!  Now, I don’t just casually walk into the door and go about the process of opening the contents in a normal manner.  Not me.  I start on the walk back to the house from the mailbox.  I dig my nails into the tape and do the best I can to pry the box apart as quickly as possible.  Broken nails do not matter. . . getting to the contents matters.  Today, I needed the assistance of the scissors and I finally got it open to be met with a pretty blue box.

I knew the box had been sent from my Grandparents who live in Florida. When I lifted the lid of the delicate little box my eyes met a beautiful ring.

I quickly slid it on my finger to feel the perfect fit and I dug deeper into the box.  It was then that I was greeted with an even more spectacular gift. . . the gift of a story.

You see, the thing about stories is that they don’t exist in a vacuum.  Each of our stories intersect with the stories of others.  I try to walk that line delicately, knowing that all stories are not mine to tell.  I asked permission to share this story and my grandmother gave her blessing.  This ring is not just any ring.  The ring holds the diamonds that made up the engagement ring of my aunt–my Grandparent’s oldest daughter.  Before they lost my Mom last year, my grandparents lost their other two children to the terrible disease of CF (Cystic Fibrosis).  (You want to talk about survivors?) I remember my uncle Bruce, who died at 33, well.  My aunt, however, I never met. 

Tucked in with this pretty little ring was something more important.  This little box held a story that means something.  In the story I heard, and understood, how important this ring is.  Just writing about it brings tears to my eyes.  This ring connects me to this woman who I never knew.  It connects me to my Grandmother who loved this woman.  It connects me to our family in a way that is deeper than it was before I knew the story.  Even as I sit here now I can already envision the day when I will tell the story to my kids and pass this legacy forward.

I realize that this little story impacts no other person.  But what I’m reminded of this evening, is the importance of telling our stories.  Not just telling them, but writing them.  Sharing the good, the bad, and the ugly.  I believe the stories unite and connect in a way even blood cannot.  I’m thankful for this story.  It is tucked in my heart along with the numerous others I have stored along the way from the beautiful woman I call “Mama”.

Tonight I’m thankful for a little ring. . . but even more thankful for a beautiful story.

Homo fabula, homo historia, we are story, story is us.  We communicate and experience life through stories every day of our lives.

-Andrew Melrose