Stories are the currencies of our lives. If in no other way, they speak of the value that is held within us.
My father and grandfather had great stories. While their ability to tell a story had its limits, the story itself was amazing! Grandfather took a boat into the unknown, leaving the rural south for the India when it was beyond anyone’s imagination. There were days where Grandmother fought cobras in the garden, some almost twice her height. Grandfather had this quest to explore the unknown, especially where there was a chance to hear or see a tiger in the wild. I know there were difficult days. When I listened to the stories, I knew I wanted to walk in their path, experiencing the unknown.
Dad’s stories were close enough to see many on the edges. Racing through the middle of the night in a truck loaded with supplies for earthquake victims seemed normal. The fact that there was no windshield just added a wild edge to it all. Climbing the fences at the local drag strip, trying to save a penny or two on admission. Sometimes our desires do get the best of us. There are stories to go along with go-karts, mini-bikes, tree houses, forts, and great adventures. Each brings a flood of memories. Even having 15 flat tires and 6 blowouts on a single holiday trip to Goa now seems like fun! The best part of the story that often goes untold is the experience of being given two tires by a merchant in a forgotten city that took pity on us. The tires were almost worthless, but at least they held air.
I remember the stories and there is one thing that is a consistent thread. It echoes David’s words; “We know you [God] were there for our parents.” (Psalm 22.4) They may not have known it. I hope they see it now. I can.
I love the stories. They remind me of what came before me. I hear possibilities and hope. The stories continue. A new one is written daily.
