One of the greatest gifts my dad gave me wasn't something that could be wrapped in paper or tucked away on a shelf. It was stories.
Some were told around the dinner table, while others found their way into long car rides or evenings during the commercial breaks while watching the Sunday night movie on Channel 6. They weren't polished tales with perfect endings. They were stories about family members who endured difficult times, neighbors who stepped in when someone needed help, and humorous, adventurous stories that made us laugh for years afterward.
Looking back, I don't remember every birthday gift I received or every toy that found its way into my room, but I remember those stories. I remember hearing about relatives I'd never met and places that no longer exist. I remember listening to tales that grew just a little funnier every time they were told and laughing before the punchline because everyone around the table already knew what was coming.
Perhaps that's why I've always loved history. Beneath every faded photograph and yellowed newspaper clipping is a story waiting to be remembered. The dates and names tell us what happened, but the stories tell us who people were. They remind us that the generations before us laughed, worried, worked hard, and trusted God through seasons that probably felt just as uncertain as our own.
As a novelist, I spend a great deal of time imagining conversations that were never recorded and ordinary moments that history forgot to preserve. I wonder what families talked about while shelling peas on the porch or driving dusty back roads after church. I wonder what made them laugh until tears rolled down their cheeks and what quiet fears they carried into bed at night.
Those thoughts have convinced me that stories are one of God's sweetest gifts. They connect generations that never had the chance to meet, preserving not just facts but values, humor, resilience, and hope. They remind us that ordinary lives matter and that faithfulness often unfolds in kitchens and fields and front yards rather than on grand stages.
With Father's Day approaching, I find myself grateful for the storytellers in my own family. The older I get, the more I realize that every tale passed from one generation to the next is a small act of preservation, a way of saying, This life mattered. Don't forget it.
Maybe that's one reason I write the stories I do. Long after the books are closed and the covers begin to show their wear, I hope the people who inhabit those pages feel like old family stories themselves. And I hope they serve as reminders that God has always been at work through ordinary people living ordinary lives with extraordinary grace.
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