There once lived a boy. Born to a young mother and father, he was received into the world with both love and fear. His father worked hard to provide and his mother worked hard to care for both the boy and her husband. As the days passed, both mother and father began to tell the boy stories, even before his mind could make sense of the tapestry woven together by their words. The stories they told were surely for him, yet in their telling both mother and father began to see more clearly what the stories meant to them, and how they as new parents would now tell them. One season gave rise to the next and with its passing, the boy and his parents grew together.

Some time later, after the boy had grown to be of perceiving age, he began to feel fearful. He was no longer only hearing the stories from his parents alone, but now the elders of his village and others from faraway places had also begun to tell them. The stories which had once brought him comfort at his mother’s breast and upon his father’s lap now, at times, had a sinister edge. New words took on new meaning, doubt began to stir and questions rumbled within him. One day the boy could take it no longer, his anguished words spilling out before his mother and father one cold and grey morning. He implored them with tears in his young eyes, demanding assurance that he was indeed worthy, that he stood on the right side of things, that he would be safe if death took him without warning. The boy’s parents comforted him, taking him up in their arms as echoes of love and fear beat in their chests. They too had questions, they too had doubts, they too felt the pangs of fear cut to the bone some dark days. Nevertheless, the stories they had been told and continued to tell were big enough to hold their fears and his. Of this they assured the boy.

In time the boy was taught to read, a world of possibility laid open before him. Before long he was lost within books, devouring pages for the nourishment they provided his hungry mind. Despite their joy to see the boy learning and growing, both mother and father were troubled that he might lose sight of the stories they had told him. Placinginto his hands a weighty and serious looking collection of books, the boy’s parents encouraged him to begin reading for himself the stories he had been told, to ponder their meaning for his life. The boy felt both honored and overwhelmed, and in the days that followed he attempted to read the stories. Somehow the stories felt different when he read them, as if something was missing, as if something was wrong. There were so many more stories than he had ever heard before, many of them terrifying, confusing and enraging. It wasn’t long before the boy began to feel as though he wasn’t ready to be reading the stories for himself, yet this very thought struck fear in his heart. The boy thought that perhaps he wasn’t worthy after all, that maybe he never would be. Days turned to weeks as the boy wrestled in his mind with what to do, echoes of love and fear pounding in his chest. Finally, when he could take it no longer, he made a decision in his young heart. From that day forward he would pretend to continue reading the stories, pretend to ponder their meaning, pretend to be worthy before his parents and others. Nevertheless, the boy continued to listen closely when the stories were told, and he treasured them in his heart.

Years passed and seasons changed, the boy grew and became older. With age came newfound freedom, the big world out there suddenly far nearer than he thought it would ever be. The boy still spent most of his time in his small village, yet the days were increasing in which he ventured out to where other kinds of life took place. When he was at home, the stories seemed closer at hand, his parents and the elders far more likely to speak them aloud, to say the names with which he had now grown all too familiar. Walking the well worn paths of his youth, the boy felt both safe and bored. There seemed to be nothing new to discover, the steps he had walked countless times remained the same, the stories he had been told for so long seemed as though they held less power and importance than before. The boy’s parents could tell that something had changed within him, they felt his presence drifting away, the same echoes of love and fear beating within their chests. Seeking assurance, they asked the people boy which of the stories he was reading, if he was still pondering their meaning, if he desired to share what was being revealed to him. The boy trembled at their asking, tears welling in his eyes as he shook his head no, silently demanding that he be leftalone. His parents pressed him further, their hope worn thin even as they understood him. The boy recoiled at their reach, his heart torn open by the strain of opposing desires. A dark cloud descended over the heart of the boy that day, its shadow chasing away the light it touched as the boy withdrew into deeper isolation. Nevertheless, the boy remained in the presence of his mother and father, the distance between them ever felt but unspoken.

Time passed and the day came when the boy was to leave the village. Having grown in knowledge and stature, his desire to encounter more of the world had met with opportunity, a chance to chart a new course into the big world beyond his homeland. Friends had already left before him, murmurs of what they had found dripped with tantalizing sweetness. As the boy packed for the journey ahead, his face resolute and determined, his mother and father reminded him of the stories, their words spoken with love and fear. The boy stiffened as he heard the stories, an ache within him soothed by their hearing while the spirit of adventure pulled at his heart. Embracing his parents, the boy promised he would write to them of what he found, tears falling from his face as he departed from the village. After much travel, the boy arrived at the place he had been seeking. As he unpacked his meager belongings, a cold and grey day just outside his window, his hand touched upon something unexpected. Grasping its smooth surface, the boy’s hand drew out a heavy and serious looking book, a beautifully rendered collection of the stories with a note tucked into its binding. Overcome with emotion, the boy threw the book aside, the note unread and the book unopened. As life unfolded in this new place, the boy found himself immersed in a sea of stories, many unfamiliar, compelling and confusing. The boy worked hard, finding new paths through which he explored the landscape of this new life far away from the village of this youth. Nevertheless, no matter how desperately he tried to live without them, the stories he had been told by his mother and father remained in his heart, the quietest moments revealing their presence when he least expected it.

In time the boy began to grow weary of his life in this new place, his heart aching with a hunger that never felt fully satisfied. Try as he might to quench his desire, the boycould not drink deep enough of his work, adventure and love, a quiet desperation continuing to grow within him. Finally, when he could stand it no longer, he decided to leave. A friend from long ago had ventured to a far away place and had invited the boy to join him there, to see what this new land could offer. Packing his bags with what little he had, the boy stood holding in his hand the stories his parents had given him so long ago, the same note held between its pages, unmoved and unread. With a sigh containing more words than he could say, he tucked the book into his bag and headed out the door. Many days of hard travel passed before the boy arrived in the new land, a hopeful expectancy stirring in his chest. Before long he had met many people, amazed at what he discovered in this foreign and uncommon place. To his amazement, the stories his parents had told him were there also, the same familiar names spoken in ways that sparked curiosity anew in the boy’s heart. Soon enough the boy began walking amongst a group of fellow travelers, the steps they shared wandering through the stories he had long ago abandoned. The boy listened intently, surprised to discover that seemingly all of his fellow travelers thought of the stories quite differently than he had. His companions spoke of the stories as if they were simply ideas, meaningful to be sure, but certainly not things that could be called true or real. Not only that, but people could write their own stories, stories by which one might live according to their own desires. The boy was amazed at these words that dripped with presumed power and freedom, his heart pounding with echoes of love and fear at the thought of writing his own story. Days passed into weeks and into months as the boy continued walking the new land with his fellow travelers, the stories he had been told in his youth rewritten into what the boy thought to be good and true. Nevertheless, as the boy purposed to write a new chapter for his life, the stories which his mother and father had told him and which he carried amongst his meager possessions remained with him.

One season passed into another and the band of fellow travelers dissolved. It hadn’t happened all at once, but instead had been a slow breaking apart as disagreement and division gave way to a bitter resentment. The boy was broken, his hope shattered, the story he had written which once carried him now felt flat and hollow. Disillusioned and despairing, the boy once again packed his meager belongings, setting out for his oldland, desperate to find solid ground on which to stand once again. Many days of hard travel passed and along the way the boy’s mind was flooded with memory, his vision of the road ahead blurred with a cascade of tears. Somehow, without really knowing how and why, the boy arrived at the doorstep of an aged elder from the village of his youth. For days the boy shared of his travels, a seemingly endless flow of stories pouring out like a dam cracked open. The elder listened with a knowing glint in his eye, his spirit saying without words to the boy that he too had wanted and wandered, he too had been bent and broken. For the first time in what seemed like forever the boy felt safe, the elder’s home and presence a shelter of protection and rest. The elder too shared from his life with the boy, at times gently making reference to the stories and how they had been a trustworthy guide for his life’s path. Without sufficient ability or reason to disagree, the boy listened and considered, wrestling in his heart to make sense of the many things that had happened to him and the elder alike. It felt to the boy as if he was being broken open and put back together, the stories which he had long ago cast aside seemed now to cast a different kind of light, one by which he was able to see himself more clearly. One dark and grey morning, with a growing tenderness in his heart, the boy grasped the book which his parents had sent with him so long ago, his hands trembling as he unfolded the note’s weathered pages. As he began to read a flood of tears rained down, the storm clouds so long shadowing his heart giving way to a brilliant and clear horizon. Looking up from the note, the boy’s eyes met those of the elder, echoes of love and fear pounding within his chest. The boy knew what he needed to do, yet he didn’t know if he had the strength to do it. Nevertheless, he embraced the elder with joy in his heart and set out for home.

The road ahead was perilous, a journey far longer than the boy could have expected. Having been broken and mended, the boy suddenly found himself walking alongside a woman whose story in many ways mirrored his own. Passion gave rise to promise, the boy and the woman marrying and soon after being blessed with a son of their own. As they made their way across the land, the boy found himself returning to the stories of his youth, the stories which he had abandoned, forgotten, and sought to write anew. One warm and glowing evening, for the first time in what seemed like forever, the boyopened the book and began to read. Familiar and foreign all at once, the stories began to break open his heart as the echoes of love and fear carried the boy deep into the night. The days ahead passed by like a steady wind, the boy and his young family’s pace quickening as they drew ever nearer to the village of his youth. One clear and cool morning, with his eye on the horizon, the boy suddenly saw something in the distance. At first he dismissed it as mere illusion, yet despite his doubt the vision persisted. Unable to contain himself, the boy began to run, his heart racing as the outlines of his village became clear and true. As the boy ran he began to yell, screaming out at the top of his lungs the names of his mother and father. Familiar faces emerged from the homes which he had known as a youth, faces which were now etched with the lines of time. All at once the boy heard a familiar sound echoing across the village, the voices of his mother and father calling out to him. The boy opened his mouth to speak, a thousand words long considered and well prepared rushing to his lips. Before a sound could escape his chest the boy felt his body leave the ground, mother and father enfolding their son with an embrace dreamt of since the day he had left. The boy and his parents wept together, their tears flowing freely as sorrow departed and joy took up residence within their hearts again.

Moments passed before the boy found the breath to speak, his voice trembling as he withdrew from his parents embrace to reveal his beautiful wife and son. The boy’s parents turned their gaze to meet those of the mother and child, struck still with awe and wonder. Before either could make a sound, the boy lifted up his son and placed him in his parents’ arms, drawing his wife near as he shared all of what had been since he had left so long ago. A season passed as the boy and his family wove the chords of their lives together, frayed strands brought back into a union of strength and beauty. One dark and grey night, word came to the boy and his family of his grandfather’s condition, a fatal illness having fallen upon him with little time remaining. After hurried travel they all arrived at the home in which the grandfather was dying, the boy quickly beckoned in to sit at his side. A blessing was given to the boy, words uttered for his ears alone to receive before his wife and son were welcomed in to receive blessings of their own for the first and last time. Soon after the boy’s grandfather breathed his last,cries of grief filling the air as all faced the void of loss. With the stain of tears upon their faces, the boy and his family began to carry out the enduring ceremonies of their people, rituals performed since before time had memory. Mourning and laboring together, the day arrived in which they would bury the grandfather, his body prepared to be received back into the ground. With the village gathered in reverence, the boy’s mother and father lifted their hands, all bearing witness together with silence speaking where words failed. Standing with his wife close at his side, the boy drew his son close to his chest, the touch of his skin a bracing assurance. Breaking the stillness of his sorrow, the boy began to whisper gently to his son. The words that came surprised the boy even as he formed them, his lips now speaking the stories in which he had found life again, the echoes of love and fear beating within his chest.