The Power of Shared Stories — Reconnecting After 28 Years

Recently, my family and I started attending a new church. One week I stepped out of the service for a moment, and as I walked back in, I caught sight of a man in the foyer. His face lit with puzzled recognition — and as soon as our eyes met, we both exclaimed each other’s names. After 28 years, the connection was instant, effortless, and warm.

We’d gone to the same conservative (tiny) Bible college forever ago. He was known for challenging the status quo, a little rebellious in ways that made people think. I, on the other hand, was determined to keep my head down — friendly but awkward, focused on doing everything right. We weren’t close back then; we ran in different circles. But every memory I had of him was good. Kind. Thoughtful. Someone whose playful grin was noticeable enough to recognize nearly thirty years later.

We greeted each other with laughter and an easy hug, the way old friends do after nearly thirty years apart. For a moment, it was as if time had stood still — though we had clearly changed.

Now we live in the same area and attend the same church. Not long after, he invited my husband and me to lunch. His wife was gracious and intelligent and curious, and we spent hours at their table talking about faith, education, leadership, family — everything and nothing, the way old and new friends do.

At one point his wife said to me, “This is so fun — seeing my husband through your eyes. I’ve never known this part of him.”

That stopped me.

Because isn’t that what stories are? Little glimpses of one another, snapshots of who we were and how we’ve grown?

That conversation reminded me why stories matter so much — and why I write.

When you reconnect with someone who knew you in a formative season of life, it’s not just nostalgia. It’s a mirror. You see how far you’ve come. You remember who you used to be — the cautious girl, the curious boy — and you marvel at all the growth in between.

It’s easy to forget how our lives are stitched together by the stories we carry. The ones we tell, the ones we don’t even realize we’re telling, the ones that live quietly in the hearts of others. They are the threads that tie us to each other, that hold us steady through change and loss and all the ways life doesn’t turn out like we planned.

Stories connect us. They give us the language for grace. They help us see God’s hand not just in the big moments but in the quiet ones — in a familiar face across a church foyer, in the warmth of a long-forgotten laugh, in the sweetness of being remembered.

I don’t know what this reunion will become. Maybe it was just a fleeting grace, a kind reminder of who we were and who we’ve become. Or maybe it’s the start of a deeper friendship, a new chapter still being written.

Either way, I’m thankful.

Because this is why I write: to remember that we are made of stories. And when we’re brave enough to tell them — or quiet enough to hear them — they become a way back to each other, a way forward into who we’re meant to be, and a way to trace God’s grace and our own growth across every page of our lives.

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