I know I’m dating myself with this story, but still stories matter. Lately, I worry we are losing our ability to connect through them.
When I was in high school, Chicago released a song that became a staple at every dance. The lights would dim, and somewhere in the opening line—I guess I thought you’d be here forever—the gym suddenly felt much larger and much quieter. Teenagers stood shoulder to shoulder, unsure where to put their hands, hoping the song would end before anyone noticed they weren’t moving at all. Standing a little closer than usual felt like progress.
“You don’t know what you got until it’s gone.”
Forty years ago, those words were about a breakup. A boy and a girl. A slow goodbye.
Age changes lyrics. It sharpens them.
Both of my parents died when I was relatively young. Now I’ve reached the age where friends and colleagues are experiencing what I went through decades ago. I recognize the look. The stunned quiet. The way the world keeps moving while something essential has stopped.
When my parents died, I was devastated. They were far from perfect. But they were my parents, and I believe they did the best they could. As children, we only see one version of our parents. Mom and Dad. We don’t see the other hats they wear.
My parents held high-profile roles in our town. I understood that in theory. In practice, they were the people who packed lunches and asked about homework. My father wasn’t a public figure to me. He was the man who sat in the stands.
After they passed, people began telling me stories.
One day, a rancher came to see me. He was nearly six-foot-four, with large hands that looked like they had done real work. He had a military haircut and an imposing presence—the kind of man who fills a room without speaking. I had only ever known him as unshakable.
He stood in front of me and cried.
He told me how my dad had saved his life. Then he told me how my dad had saved his wife’s life too. He said he thanked God for Doc Harris and for what he did. Then he looked at me and said, simply, your dad was an amazing man.
I had never heard that story.
In that moment, my father became larger—and somehow closer. I learned about the quiet ways he showed up for people. The unseen hours. The choices I never knew about. And I understood that sometimes saving a life mattered more than making it to a baseball game.
When people die, all we really have left are the stories. If we don’t tell them, they disappear.
That’s why it matters to speak them out loud. To share them while we still can. Stories are how we keep people alive—not as they were in one role, but as they truly were.
You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.
And sometimes, you don’t really know it until someone tells you the story.
So maybe today, reach out to someone and tell a story—about a parent, a friend, a moment that mattered—because maybe, just maybe, it will remind us of our shared human bond.
When the snow melted, I took pictures of my son playing tennis. 
(still my favorite picture)
Sireadh Toileachas 
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