I have always loved stories. Books, of course, but also the kind told across a dinner table, or whispered on a front porch, or shared with a friend at just the right moment. Some of the most healing stories in my life were never written on paper.
Stories remind us we are not alone. When someone else names the fear, grief, or joy we have felt, it loosens something inside of us. It gives shape to feelings we could not form on our own.
Jesus understood this. “These things all taken together Jesus said to the crowds in parables; indeed, He said nothing to them without a parable” (Matthew 13:34, AMPC). He knew truth could travel straight to the heart when wrapped in story.
What I find beautiful is that stories work both ways. They heal the teller and the listener. Speaking a story out loud can be a way of unburdening. Hearing it can be a way of being seen. That is why sharing our lives matters.
I also believe stories hold power because they point us to a bigger Story. Every glimpse of redemption, every tale of loss and restoration, echoes the Gospel itself. Our lives, messy as they are, become chapters in that greater narrative.
I want to listen more closely to the stories around me, not just the ones in books. I want to be slow to dismiss the ordinary details someone chooses to share, because often those details are where the healing begins.
We live in a world quick to move past people’s words. But healing often comes in the pause, in the space where someone feels free to tell their story.
May we create more of those spaces. May we tell our stories with courage and listen with grace.
