There is something incredible about the power and art of oral storytelling. I know everyone has stories, and I’m persuaded that everyone is a storyteller. Just try and notice this week how many stories are shared with you verbally: perhaps a small story from a co-worker and their lunch break antics, or of seeing a crazy driver on the road. Or maybe it’s the tale your spouse spins at night as they recount the day. And of course we can’t ignore the many sweet and ever-cherishable chronicles of little children, as they gleefully share with us their hearts. I was witness to this art of storytelling in a new way not long ago.
My wife and I are sitting across from my grandfather. He is 95. He’s smaller than I’ve ever known him to be. His head of white hair is still full, along with the matching mustache across his upper lip. He seems downcast, maybe tired. A void fills the room—that of longing, and absence. It’s resounding from the empty recliner by his side, which is missing my grandmother (or as I say, my Meme). She hasn’t sat there in over a year. They would soon be celebrating their 72nd anniversary together if she were. Each time we visit Gramps, he remarks how much he misses her.
We are quiet, just existing in the silence—which, I’ve come to notice, is much less deafening if you have nowhere else you’d rather be. My Meme usually did most of the talking, while Gramps was always content with our presence. His hearing loss mostly left him an avid observer. But here the three of us have gathered, and it occurs to me that perhaps the best way to spend the time would be in sharing stories.
“Gramps” I say, “Do you remember your first date with Meme?”
He takes a deep breath, and slowly raises his eyes to meet mine.
“Well,” he says, “I remember the first time I tried, though things didn’t go so well.”
A grin begins to cross his face, and his eyes light up as if his twenty-year-old self was alive and well and looking back at me. He’s more animated now than I’ve seen him all day.
“I guess it were a double date,” He continues, “My friend really liked one of Meme’s gals, and so we had arranged prior that the four of us would go out for a coke or something. My friend had a nice pickup and so we had told them we’d be around to give them a ride around 4pm.”
He’s speaking slowly, with deep breaths between each sentence. He has that look on his face and cadence to his words that say it’s not the first time this story has been shared. My wife and I are hooked.
“My friend and I were driving down a country road, headed to the girl’s place when his truck blew a tire.” He laughs a little bit while our faces show shock. “It took us all but the rest of the evening to get it changed and I know those girls were thinking we had stood them up.”
“What happened then?” I ask.
“I’m lucky she gave me another chance. This was a time before cell phones, you know. But I guess everything worked out in the end.”
My wife and I begin to ask some questions. We have just been transported into another world, one that is entirely different from anything we have experienced. There is connection with my Gramps and we witnessed the joy in his retelling of a precious memory.
There is certainly more to that story, and to the many others in the 70 years that my grandparents spent together. I began from that day to relish any opportunity I might have to hear even a small story from my elder.
Storytelling is something almost natural to us as people. We just do it. We love to share our stories orally. Now, admittedly, some stories are better than others, and some storytellers are more engaging than others. But this doesn’t negate the fact that storytelling is deeply integral to the human experience. So why do we do this?
I believe oral storytelling is like building a bridge. These stories that we share with each other connect us in some way. That bridge might be a memory, or an emotion. It could be laughter, or pain. No matter its substance, the story connects us. And we crave this bridge building like a sort of food for our souls because we were created in the image of God, and to be in relationship with one another. Our stories have a unique way of nourishing that connection—strengthening its structure, and crossing the gap of the unknown.
Just look at how God chose to connect with us: He gave us his word, the Holy Bible, which is a story. What the story contains is most important, but the format is also relevant—oral stories passed down from generation to generation until finally written down. God gave us an amazing story. Jesus told countless stories (some of them even made-up tales). Storytelling, especially in an oral way, is a unique experience that all of us share. I believe these stories are vital to us and deeply important to share with one another.
So as you go this week, engage in the art of oral storytelling. First, be an observer of the art. See how many stories you can get out of the people you interact with. Ask good, leading questions and listen—truly and intently. For in each story an image-bearer is building a bridge from their soul. Then, get into the art yourself. Make something beautiful. Construct something sturdy. Tell your stories. Don’t worry about techniques or whether you are engaging. You’ve been doing this forever. Just be yourself and connect with someone else through the art of oral storytelling.
Featured image by tawatchai07
Zane connects with the words of the apostle John. “I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, Make straight the way of the Lord” (John 1:23). He aspires to be a herald, an ambassador, and a watchman. A kind of sojourner who brings hope with him as he travels through this life
- The Art of Oral-Storytelling - April 8, 2024
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