Tell Their Stories
October 6, 2026
Tell Their Stories
Louis made me almost cry with these words “have you been telling Laud stories about his Boompa?”
My memories flooded into my mind in vivid Technicolor. The story of him diving headfirst into a pool and walking home without realizing the reason the girls at the pool screamed when he surfaced was blood, not water, from a head wound – a priest met him walking and ensured he got home and to help. The story of Kimberly saying “Boompa, where’s your toe?” (It had been amputated years before) and my Daddy said, “what, it’s missing? Oh no! Where did it go?” All the littles were scrambling around searching the toys on the floor for his toe. My Daddy playing his guitar to make Mom smile and dance in the kitchen and making up lyrics flattering her to make her blush and say “Gary!”
Theadora and Laud never met my Daddy. I tell them stories and show them pictures. (Pretty sure Jaquline is so tired of the “find my toe” story by now, I get a “Mom!” from her when I tell it, but Thea always laughs so hard.)
Theadora was less than six months old when my baby sister died. Laud never saw her. I tell them stories and show them pictures. I hear comments like “oh, my, she looks so much like (insert cousin name)” I think so too.
A friend posted about how sad she is that her brother never got to meet her new baby.
Another family member lost his father. I cry for him because, yes, I know how your head brings memories of things you wanted. You can be sad, mad, thankful, celebrating, and grieving all at the same time. I know I will never watch one of my children’s weddings or graduations without a part of me starting to feel sad that Daddy and Mary aren’t there; but then smiling because they would be rejoicing with us. I have learned that my life now will be rejoicing and celebrating while a part of me still misses them.
Yes. My head still goes through the what ifs.
I still wanted to see my Daddy DJ from his computer setup at impromptu get togethers as my teens grew up.
I wanted my baby sister twirling my niece at my daughter’s wedding. I could see her doing the line dances at weddings and celebrating with us. But instead I saw her sons stealing the show along with the other brother-cousins at Christina & Dylan’s wedding.
If you’ve lost anyone, you never really “finish” grieving. You see what they could have been. You see what they have missed. Sometimes it makes you sad because you wanted those relationships and memories you knew your children to make with them. I wanted my Daddy to talk his wisdom to help my children learn how to think as he did with me. I wanted my sister to love on my babies as I had with her and she did with my big girls. Christina was closer to my baby sister than I was. Seven years separated them. Almost thirteen years separated her from me. She was Christina’s first babysitter, she lived with us off and on in what my Daddy called “training to be a mother” stints from when she was 13. She was with us when Rebeccah and Kimberly were born. She got to hold her little nieces at seven, nine, eleven, thirteen, and fifteen yesrs old – we were looking at pictures of Kimberly’s birth (Mary would have been eleven) and Lucas comments, “she looks like your daughter, Mom.”
That made me cry too. When she died, unexpectedly, “too early” (but in reality, God holds all life and death in His hands), so young (23), yes, I was yelling “WHY” at God. I know in my heart that God is in control and everything works according to His plan, but my heart was so mad, sad, overwhelmed with emotions I had never felt before.
My logical brain always reminds me that I cannot change the past. I can’t bring them back. I can’t swing by Daddy’s and enter an hour or more discussion. I can’t call Mary and chat about babies and when we are meeting at the beach or Treaty Park next.
I will always miss them.
My Daddy had always told us to enjoy people while they are here. He didn’t want a big funeral. He wanted us to be around as while he could enjoy us. When I was pregnant with Kimberly I started trying to be purposeful about keeping connections and friendships with my siblings. Building relationships instead of disappearing into motherhood alone.
I still find a random song making me remember them. Owl City’s “Fireflies” will never be anything but “Aunt Mary’s Song” and TobyMac’s “21 Years” and “Faithfully” still make me cry because I hear “23” instead of “21.” Both died the same year. Bob Carlisale’s “Man of His Word” and Steven Curtis Chapman’s “Not Home Yet” – Daddy loved and played those songs.
Then there’s Carrie Underwood’s “Temporary Home” that reminds me of a friend, Mary, and my Daddy – in my head, other words replace details (like I hear, “…chair at home…” instead of “…hospital bed…”), but my brain does that with songs sometimes.
But then Louis said: Tell their stories.
That makes me smile. It makes me think of how many stories my Daddy told of his mother and father – he lost his mother at 12, his father at just 20. My Daddy kept Grandma Alice and Grandpa Melvin “alive” for us in the stories he told. My Grandmother always helping everyone. My Grandfather being a solid steady rock. I felt like I knew a slice of them. I had been born over 20 years after my Alice Mae Shaw Pearson’s death, yet I could feel her character from my father’s stories. My Mom told me that her Granny’s words were still helping people though she died long ago: my mom repeated her wisdoms often. She was Granny’s memory-keeper.
Most of us carry the loss of someone we love. We also hold the honor of being their memory-keeper. They don’t speak on Earth anymore. We remember their words. We remember their smiles. Their laughter. Their joy. Something they said that impacted us deeply. Things we wanted them to get to tell our children.
This is where we can do something to show our love. We can remember. When we feel that sadness, we remember a warm memory and smile, then say, “You know, I remember my Daddy playing this song on his guitar. He would always change this word so it matched Grandma Tina…” or “Aunt Mary loved to tickle babies with her braid, just like this, and make baby Jaquline squeal and giggle!”
I can share the happy, warm memories I’ve kept in my heart. I can tell their stories. Yes, it’s true, we will share and remember “only the good stories” – there are times for the darker ones to be told, but not always. My Daddy didn’t talk about the threats to my grandfather or his business or the arson case I discovered when all of his bakeries burned down; but he told me his father taught him that all people were God’s children (not popular in Savannah in the 50s and 60s). I will always remember the fun stories more than the challenging ones. I can explain the challenging ones when it’s needed, but I want to remember the joy. And that’s okay. No one is perfect. All of us have flaws. It is totally okay to remember “only the good” stories to talk of often and know the “darker” stories for when that’s needed.
So remember the joy. Cultivate the stories in your heart that you want to remember. Match them with pictures or videos. I’ve been in many homes where there’s a wall with memories of a family history or a shadowbox honoring someone who passed. Those show happy memories and point others to how much you loved that person.
Tell their stories.
Thank you, Jesus, for memories.
Type at you next time,
~Nancy Tart
