I come to this doctor’s office every week and I have for six years now. We are all here to get our allergy shots-two for me, please. There’s a required waiting time after the shot-thirty minutes (in the case of an anaphylactic reaction). While it’s an annoyance to sit and wait, I think all of us gathered here would rather not have a reaction to our shots. So we wait.

The group in the waiting room is always an interesting mixture of people. There’s usually a teacher, a wealthy man or woman from the Island, occasionally a man I recognize from a tv show, mothers, grandparents, and a few kids. Like unfortunate souls stuck in a broken elevator, those who wait here end up sharing their life stories each week.

Today I walk in and the shot nurse is seated in the waiting room with a few other patients, sharing stories from her life. A kind, grandmotherly type, she always greets me each week, asking about my children. She’s been curious about our homeschooling and checks in with me about how school is going. She takes a break from her story to get my needles ready. I sit in her little closet size shot room in the corner of the doctor’s office and await my shots. She pulls a stack of vials from the refrigerator, whose door is covered with photos of grandchildren and drawings from patients, and finds the two with my name. In one vial contains the dust mites and in the other animals, trees, plants and various molds. Once finished, she returns to the waiting room to resume her story.

I’ve missed much of it but quickly gather that she is sharing one of those “fork in the road” stories that we all have. One by one, people starting contributing their own stories. Soon the room turns nostalgic and a gentleman suggests she writes down her stories for her children and grandchildren.

I am reminded of the time my husband and I sat around the table, the dinner dishes cleared, and “interviewed” my grandfather about his stories from the war. I wrote it all down in a journal. It was these stories that inspired us to visit Normandy and the D-Day beaches last year while we were in France. When I stood on Omaha Beach, I looked out into the waters and imagined my grandfather, a young gunner on ship, shooting away at the enemy.

Our lives are a series of stories, written by the Author of life Himself. Some chapters are a difficult read and others we like to read over and over again. As these stories are shared, they become the glue that links generations together. They give each family their unique identity and keep us from being lost in the wilderness of confusion regarding our place in this world.

When my other grandfather passed away a few years ago, I realized how few of his stories I had heard. As we went through the items at his house, I wondered about each one. “What was happening before this picture was taken?” “Why did he keep this all these years?” “Did he use this fan as a young man to keep cool during hot Virginia summer nights?” “What important news did he hear through the speakers of this radio?” Without stories, those questions cannot be answered.

One year I gave my parents a jar with 52 strips of paper in it. On each slip of paper was a question about their childhood and young adult years. I included questions such as “What did you dream about being when you grew up?” “What was your first car?”What characteristics did you most admire in your parents?” “What do you remember about your grandparents?” and “Which teacher inspired you the most?” I also gave them a journal and in it they were to answer one question a week and return the completed questions to me the following Christmas. This journal, with stories written in their own hand, will be passed down for generations to come.

The group in the waiting room continues to reminisce. One tells a story of how she went out on a prom date with a man and never went out with him again. It was years later that she learned he had become a world-famous artist. Another tells a story of a relative who used to exchange conversations with Thomas Edison. They begin to wonder aloud how stories will be passed on now that few people actually write things down. A few share stories of cherished handwritten notes from loved ones long passed. Everyone agrees that their children will want the stories written down. The thirty minutes have passed and each patient leaves to go their own way.

I look at my children, seated next to me in the waiting room. They have been oblivious to the conversation around them, evidenced by their concentration on the game they are playing, sliding their fingers this way and that across the screen. I think about the stories I have told them and those I still want to pass on to them. We frequently tell them about the circumstances surrounding their birth. My oldest knows he is a hurricane baby (and will one day be relieved we didn’t name him after hurricane Jeanne!). They’ve heard about all the pranks their dad pulled on his friends in college. They know about their late grandfather’s career in the fire department. But there are so many stories left yet to be told…

The question that lingers after we have left the office, how well do they understand how all the stories we tell them fit into God’s Greater Story? Do they see their own connectedness in the story of God’s redemption? Later that night, I remind them that God is writing a story in their own lives. I tell them that even now He is preparing them for a special job in His Kingdom, one that’s been selected just for them. He has made them with particular talents and abilities to use for His glory. And one day, they will have their own stories to tell and pass on.

What about you? How do you pass on stories in your family?

Linking up with:

And Word Filled Wednesday