Story Telling

I’ve always loved stories. In church, or school, I sat up when someone told a story. Just hearing the words “once upon a time” made me eager to hear what was coming next. Stories are easy to understand, and can be remembered for years. I was fortunate to find jobs that allowed me to use my love of stories for good. Stories can help people understand things that lie deep within, sometimes beyond logic’s overwhelming grasp.

I recently realized how long I’ve been telling stories, not all of which have been helpful. The stories I am referring to are the ones I've told myself since I was a child. Looking in the mirror, I told myself stories about my body. Playing sports, I told myself stories about my abilities. And when I was pulled out of class for special attention because of my dyslexia, I told myself stories about my intellect. I doubt I’m alone, but the stories I've told are unique to me, and I’ve carried them for a long, long time.

The stories I’ve told myself (and even shared with others, so they could tell them too) helped make sense of the world and my place in it.  It never dawned on me to questioned the stories I was telling. They've provided a convenient explanation of things, even if they weren't true. I’ve come to see how false some of my stories have been, and how much they’ve held me back.

            Questioning the stories we tell can be disconcerting. What if I’m not who I’ve always said I am? What if I've encased this person in a story that isn't true? What if the way I remember and event isn't completely accurate? Then what? In some sick and twisted way, holding a false narrative feels more comfortable and safe than the uncertainty of questioning long-held stories. Like sitting in a car stuck in a ditch, you at least know where you are! As absurd as that sounds, it’s what many of us do.

            On the other side of our discomfort, however, on the other side of the uncertainty, is new life. I can’t say I know this to be true, because it's all new to me, but I believe it is. With fear and trepidation, I’m beginning to question my stories, I’m reaching down and putting the car in drive. It’s time to get out of the ditch and see what’s down the road.

Want to come along?

Snow Days

Today’s a snow day, and there’s nothing like a snow day. There never has been. I still remember lying in bed hoping for my mother would come down the hall to deliver the news that was above all news: school’s cancelled! Wanting to sleep in, I was always too excited to sleep, and, bundled in snow pants and sweater, I struggled to get the required breakfast down before being allowed to go outside. With the nod from my mother, I’d run outside with my dog and sister and sled down the tiny slope in front of our house. (I think the best “runs” lasted 4.5 seconds.) Even at fifty-eight, the memory stirs the 10 year old within.

Seeing snow fall from the sky and yet make no sound is, itself, enchanting. Watching it gather on evergreen branches is all but a ticket to Narnia, and leaves me expecting to come across a lamppost any minute. Cars become infrequent, and those that drive past are muffled. All the uncollected leaves and fallen branches are covered with nature’s pristine white coat, and my dog celebrates with her version of making snow angels. Businesses and schools are closed, and there’s little to do but enjoy the day. (I do my best to avoid the grocery store, where people push to get the last loaf of bread or gallon of milk. Who ever said those were the essentials on snow days?)

More than the way it looks, what I love most is how a snow day feels. People go for walks, neighbors wave, soup and bread become a feast, and adults sled. In other words, life takes a turn in a different direction. Meetings and phone calls wait. The snow makes rooms inside brighter, and people seem to breath deeper. Instead of living, we remember what a gift it is to be alive.

Maybe that’s the greatest magic of all.

Squeaky Doors

There once was a man who had a squeaky door. He went to the hardware store, bought some WD 40, and placed it in his toolbox when he returned from the store. Much to his dismay, the door continued to squeak.

As absurd as such a story is, it points to a truth I would do well to remember on the first of the year. This is a time of year when I look forward and think about the year to come. I make goals and/or resolutions to address the squeaky doors of my life. Whether it’s to lose weight, deepen my spiritual life, improve a relationship, or learn something new, too often I am like the man in the story. I go buy a gym membership and a new exercise bag instead of going outside for a run. I go buy a new Bible rather than read one of the seven I own. I buy a book on parenting instead of inviting my child to go on a walk.

All of us have toolboxes full of everything we need to have an amazing new year. We don’t need to go buy anything. We simply need to reach within and use the tools we already have, read the books we already own, and embrace the people who are sitting right beside us. Suddenly doors stop squeaking!