The Stories We Collect

We’re all collectors of stories. Some are lighthearted, some carry pain, and some are given to us whether we want them or not. They end up shaping how we see ourselves, God, and the world around us. Lately I’ve been thinking about the kinds of stories I carry and how they’ve changed me.

Personal stories, t​he ones that mark us.
I still remember a middle school dance where a “friend” announced my crush to the entire school. The boy and the usual bullies took turns harassing me the rest of the night. I wanted to disappear. But then a boy I didn’t really hang out with, someone who also got picked on, walked over and asked me to dance. He didn’t try to fix it, just stayed nearby, cracked a few jokes, and gave me space to be quiet. I didn’t laugh much, but I never forgot the kindness. Moments like that carve themselves into you, not because of the pain, but because of the unexpected grace that meets it.
Not every memory stings like that one. My grandpa had a way of making space for me, even while he worked. He set up a little corner in his workshop with a table, chair, and cable so I could watch Looney Tunes while he tinkered. Every so often he would pause to teach me something. One time he saw me drawing a dog and without any adieu, turned my sketch into a wooden toy. My grandpa was good at many things, but what he gave best was his time. That was his love language, and I carry that with me still.

Inherite​d stories, the ones handed down.
The story of Job has taken on different meaning for me as I’ve grown. As a kid, I saw it as a story of a man God allowed to be tormented, and it unsettled me, especially when I felt like I was being tormented myself. Over time, I began to see it differently. Job wasn’t abandoned; he was trusted. God had such confidence in him that He allowed the enemy to spend his energy trying, and failing, to break him. That shift changed how I understood suffering.
Some stories come to us not from scripture but from the people who lived before us. My grandma loved to tell about how she and my grandpa “courted.” He drove all the way from Lind down to Yakima one Sunday morning just to go to church with her, then took her for milkshakes at the soda fountain. After that, he made the ​drive every Sunday without fail. A story like that becomes part of the family’s bones, steadfast, ordinary love told in long drives and early mornings.

Ch​os​en stories, the ones we claim.
Some stories we pick up for ourselves. Years ago, I fell into the Throne of Glass series. I devoured every release the day it came out and have reread them more times than I can count. Each time I return, I carry old versions of myself into the story, the excitement of first reads, the comfort of certain seasons. What keeps me coming back are the characters who choose to fight when everything seems lost. That has become my story too, courage in the dark.
Other stories don’t come from books but from people who live what they teach. In high school, my history teacher had us working on presidential campaign projects during the McCain–Obama election. We all knew where most of our teachers stood, but every time we asked him his opinion, he gave the same answer. “That’s not my job,” he would say. “My job is not to tell you what to think. My job is to help you learn how to find answers and to think for yourself.” Those words stuck with me. They reminded me that the best stories aren’t instructions on what to believe, but invitations to grow in how we see and understand the world. It is a lesson I have carried into my own classrooms, where my goal is not to hand students conclusions but to help them build the tools to reach their own.

Unintentional stories, the ones we never asked for.
Some stories stick to us even when we wish they wouldn’t. “You can do anything you put your mind to” used to sound like a cruel joke. But as the years passed, life itself turned it into something truer than I expected. It doesn’t mean anything comes easy. It means imagination and persistence can move mountains you once thought unshakable.
Other uninvited stories cut deeper. As a child in church, Mark 11:24 rang in my ears: “Whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours.” At a summer camp, a pastor laid hands on me and prayed for healing. I was tiny, maybe six, and I believed with everything I had. And I wasn’t healed. For years afterward I wrestled with anger at God, at church, at anyone who tried to comfort me. These days I’ve found some measure of peace with my circumstances, but there are still moments when I wonder why. That story never left me, and maybe it never will.

The collection as a whole.
Together, these stories, personal, inherited, chosen, and unintentional, make up who I am. They remind me that not all stories are easy, and not all stories are happy. But each one carries weight. Each one shapes how I love, how I fight, how I trust, and how I see God.
We’re all collectors of stories. The question is, which ones are you carrying? Which ones are you ready to pass on, and which ones still have something left to teach you?