12/29/2025
I might have shared this before but it came across my memories and is definitely worth sharing again!
https://www.facebook.com/share/p/16ewtUnFdt/
I’ve encountered the worst, most horrible, awful aspect of cleaning out my dad’s house, which belonged to my grandparents before him: we have lost all the stories.
I was my dad’s only child, and he was my grandparents’ only child. My dad’s death was unexpected, so I never got the full data dump of family stories from him, especially as it relates to our heirlooms.
I encounter one object after another that is very old, that I know has deep meaning to my family, but I don’t know details. Which clock is the one that was a wedding gift to my great-great grandparents? Whom did this 1892 Bible belong to? What were the items that were brought to Texas by covered wagon by my ancestors in the 1850s? My dad knew. And now that he’s gone, there is no one left to ask. I will never know. The stories died with him.
Never has the power of story been more apparent to me than it is today. It’s reminded me of why I always defend people sharing their lives on social media, even if it means we’re walking around taking selfies all the time. When someone is photographing or videoing their lives it’s not usually because they’re vain or addicted to their phone. It’s because they want to share. They have a story to tell, and they want someone to hear it.
As someone who is reeling from the loss of stories, I want to encourage you to be more bold in sharing your own. Get on Instagram and let us laugh with you when you can’t find your car in the parking lot. Tell us why you ate that one sandwich for lunch. Vent about how you’re really feeling today. As I sit in my family’s house, surrounded by objects full of secrets I’ll never know, I can promise you the only story you’ll regret is the one that doesn’t get told.
