Sharing stories is becoming a lost art. I believe it can be attributed in part to the advent of social media. I know, everything bad in the world can be blamed on social media, but in this case, I think it’s largely the culprit. Allow me to explain.
For eons, families sat around caves, campfires, dinner tables, and living rooms sharing stories. They told stories of their ancestors and family histories, passed along hard-earned lessons, and offered advice to one another. They engaged in real conversation, sharing thoughts as well as mundane details about their day. They talked. And they listened.
Since social media came along, family mealtimes have become battlegrounds. Parents and kids argue over the “no phones at the table” rule, spending more energy enforcing it than enjoying each other’s company. And, of course, sometimes the parent is just as glued to their screen as the kids.
I am thankful I grew up in a different time. I remember sitting at my Granny’s table on Sundays, listening to my mother and her siblings tell tales of their childhoods. Their stories were always funny, sometimes similar, yet each told from a unique perspective. I can still see my Granny, hand over her mouth, belly shaking with laughter as they debated whose version was “correct.” Those Sunday afternoons were more than entertainment, they were lessons in connection.
Stories show us the value of shared experience
Stories like these show us why sharing experiences matters. Whether spoken or written, human beings connect through story. They help us make sense of our own lives and learn from the journeys of others. When we have shared experiences, we realize we are not alone. We are all part of the human condition, experiencing both joy and sorrow. Stories of tragedy can enrage, sadden, or even stir wounds we are afraid to face.
“Shared stories give us meaningful anchors. They deepen connection and empathy.”
Those who have lost family members understand the pain of others who have walked a similar path. People struggling with addiction, grief, or infertility can find a sense of community and support through shared experiences.
Stories create memory and belonging
And these principles are not just theoretical, I’ve seen them in my own life. I’ve started a little project with my Dad, recording his stories every week. Listening to him recount his life has been a powerful reminder that shared stories preserve not only experiences but also connection and belonging.
I have three young nephews, and I feel compelled to preserve these memories. If I don’t, all his experiences will vanish when he is gone. I want the boys to know what an amazing, funny, talented, and loving Poppi they have. I want them to have a record of the life he lived and the man and boy he once was. Stories like his create more than memories, they give us a sense of belonging, a connection to the past, and a deeper understanding of who we are within our family.
I was lucky to experience this firsthand. Hearing these stories myself as a child made me realize just how special they are. Riding the backroads of the little community where he grew up, I got a sneak peek into his life, nobody else knows that Daddy used to sing to me in that old gray pickup truck of his.
Lemon Tree
Lemon tree, very pretty, and the lemon flower is sweet,
but the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat…
…and then he would break into the chorus from Roses Are Red, My Love:
Roses are red, my love, violets are blue,
sugar is sweet, my love, but not as sweet as you.
We would ride around on those old country roads, and he’d point out where his friends lived and where he rode his horses. He showed me the old silo where he lived on the dairy farm with his father and even shared the story of the beating he got for accidentally, or maybe on purpose, setting the corn puller on fire. Each story made me feel like we had secrets that were only ours. He gave me a sneak peek into who he was before he was Daddy.
“In my eyes, he was a modern-day Tom Sawyer, larger than life—even though he’s only 5’3½.”
In my eyes, he was a modern-day Tom Sawyer, larger than life, even though he’s only 5’3½. Can’t forget that half, he would say. And now, sharing these memories with my nephews feels like passing along a treasure, keeping Poppi’s spirit alive in the stories that shaped him and now them.
Stories create intimacy and trust
These stories, shared, remembered, and treasured, allow us to truly know one another. They open the door to understanding, connection, and trust, not just with family, but with those we invite into our hearts.
True intimacy isn’t what the world usually frames it to be. It comes from a deep understanding of one another. My husband and I met on an online dating site. We exchanged messages a few times, got tired of typing, and agreed to chat on the phone. From the very first conversation, our words poured out, he shared his stories of heartbreak and pain, and I shared mine. That night, we were on the phone for seven hours. The next chat lasted five.
“The point is, it was the stories. We had similar experiences, and once we connected on that level, trust grew naturally from there.”
I remember asking God if it was possible to fall in love with someone’s heart before you even met them. But let’s be honest, I also threw in, “And Lord, make sure he doesn’t have a face only a mother could love,” just in case.
Stories entertain us
Sharing stories doesn’t just build trust and connection, it can also bring joy, laughter, and a sense of wonder, making us laugh until our bellies hurt or sit on the edge of our seats in anticipation. We all have those family members who are known for their ability to tell unforgettable stories. Thankfully, I grew up listening to one of the most gifted storytellers around, my brother.
“Those moments of laughter and suspense aren’t just entertainment—they’re part of what makes our stories memorable and meaningful.”
He was always telling crazy tales, either things that happened to him on his wilder nights as a teen or his famous stories about his grandfather Marcus. He was a master at setting up the story with just the right amount of detail. He knew the right tone, pace, and cadence. He did the voices and knew how to keep you on the edge of your seat until the very end when the entire room burst into laughter. Those impromptu speeches seemed rehearsed, but they weren’t. Instead, they showed the mark of a truly gifted storyteller. Makes me smile just thinking about it. I still remember most of them to this day.
Don’t let your stories die
I think of my Granny’s laughter shaking the table. I think of my mother and her siblings, voices overlapping as they shared their stories. I think of Daddy singing in that old gray truck. I think of my brother spinning one of his wild tales. I think of my husband sharing his own memories. And I know those moments live on because someone chose to tell them.
Every family and every person in it has stories. They matter. They connect us in ways nothing else can. Each experience, each heartbreak, each triumph and failure, they all shape who we are. And we don’t just live them for ourselves, we live them so they can be shared with other humans being human. Yes, sharing sometimes takes vulnerability. Sometimes it takes bravery. But the connection that comes in return is worth it.
“So tell your stories. Share your heart. Put down the phone and really connect with the people around you. Don’t let your stories die.”
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