This writing started out as a short reflection back in 1999. I developed it into a sermon and preached it last week. Funny how we preachers can make a mountain out of a mole hair. At any rate, hope you are blessed by it.
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When I was a kid we used to go and visit my grandparents who lived in north Ohio once or twice a year. I always went with some mixed emotions. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to watch TV because they didn’t own one and I knew I wasn’t going to be able to run around their house like I could my own house, it wasn’t allowed. However, I knew that I would get to eat my grandmothers orange drop cookies – we’d fight to the death for those – and I would hear wonderful stories that my grandmother would read to us boys, stories like “Old Yeller,” “Little Rascal,” “The Box Car Children,” “Call of the Wild,” and many others over the years.
Every evening, after dinner, after family devotion time, she would gather us in the living room and she would begin to read on of the stories she had picked out just for our visit. We would be enraptured, caught up in every word she would read. I remember closing my eyes and I would lie on the floor and her words would create movies in my head. Well, maybe they were more like TV shows, with Beaver and Wally, Marcia Brady as the female lead, or Captain Kirk as the stern father.
She would read a chapter or two and then close the book. My eyes would shoot open and we would beg her to read one more chapter, which she would. She planned it that way, as all good grandmothers know how to do.
Sometimes, after the story, she would take something from the story and apply to life, or she would talk about her life, or my mom’s life as a child. I didn’t close my eyes during these stories because these stories were now connected to me in some way, and I had lots of questions about those stories.
My grandmother and mom, and sometimes an aunt or an uncle, would go back and forth telling stories about their lives and I would move back and forth listening to them like you do when you watch a tennis match.
When I had my own children, I would curl up with them and a good book and read them stories. They would lie there and, sometimes, with their eyes closed, listen intently to what dad was reading, with Grover and Bert and Ernie and Mr. Rogers playing the roles in their heads. When I thought they were asleep I would close the book and their eyes would pop open and they would say, “One more page, Dad! Just one more page.” I would open the book and read a few more pages, as all good parents plan on doing anyway.
Eventually we moved from book stories to made-up stories. Knights and shining armor, horses captured and becoming the faithful steed, the child’s dog who goes in search of its master or mistress who had been captured or gotten lost, or the wicked wizard who had cast a spell on the land and it was up to which ever child I was telling the story to to go and break the spell and save the land.
As they got older, they began to add their own dimensions to the made-up stories, almost in a tag team fashion, as the stories were retold and expanded. But there were times during our story time that they would break into the story because something triggered in their minds and they would ask questions about how they got their names (because all hero’s have names with special meanings), or where were they born and why did we move (because people in stories always have special reasons for where they were born and where they lived), or what was it like when I was a kid, and so on. They would listen with their eyes open, not wanting to miss a word. And during the times they would be sitting, listening to me and family members talking about our lives and our children’s, their heads would move back and forth to whoever was talking, just like you do when you watch a tennis match.
Now that they are older, I find myself sitting in the room with them and I listen as they tell their stories about their lives, with my head moving back and forth…
In January of 1999 I met my Dad and two brothers in Macon, GA and we spent the day visiting my Granddad. He was 92 and dying. For several months, it seemed, I’d get a call from my Dad telling me that Granddad had taken a turn for the worse, “This could be the end, son,” my Dad would say only to call back a few days later telling me that Granddad had bounced back, a little worse than before but still alive and kicking. So we decided to pay him a visit.
We sat around and talked. We talked about his health, his doctors, the medicines he was on, the caregivers that came to visit him during this last and, what would be his final bout, with illness. But eventually our conversations moved to stories. “You boys don’t know this but your Dad used to…” would begin one story and then Granddad would move to “Momma and I used to go out and…” and then, after a while, “Did I ever tell you about the time your Dad and your uncles would…” and off he went into another story that kept us grown men riveted to our chairs. All day, we sat telling our stories, each of us adding our own account of twisted tales, gross exaggerations, lessons learned, stumbles and redemption.
I still go back to those times when I spent a week or two for several summers with my grandparents in Macon. I loved hanging out with my Granddad. He would tell me about his life, when he was a young whippersnapper working on the railroad, when he met his life, how he got saved and when he felt God’s call to the ministry. I would listen for hours, standing along side him as we messed around in his wood shop or drove to visit someone in the church or do errands, and especially when we sat at the pond and would fish. He would tell me stories and I would listen and learn. I would learn about my family, about what it meant to be a man of integrity, what it was like to walk with God.
I have often wondered about the art of story telling. I watch and listen to people that seem to be able to talk and hold their audience captive as they share stories, sometimes based on fact, sometimes fiction. I’ve always wanted to have that ability. I’ve always wanted to be a singer but there are just some talents that elude me.
But I have come to realize that I do have the ability to tell stories. In fact, we all do. Whenever we share something with someone about our lives or our present situations or our joys and hopes, we are telling stories.
Stories, for the most part, are told in an attempt to pass something on to those that hear them. Truth we have discovered, history about who we are, insights, an experience that offers hope and comfort.
Jesus told stories, stories based in fact, metaphors and allegories, historical, and he told them for the same reasons, to share truth, to help others understand who he was, to offer hope and comfort, and, above all, to show the way to God. That is the whole purpose of the Bible, to give us stories that show us through the lives of others who we are and can be and how a loving God reached out to draw us into a relationship with him.
One of my favorite verses is found in John 21:25, “Jesus also did many other things. If they were all written down, I suppose the whole world could not contain the books that would be written.”
We need to be telling our stories. It really doesn’t involve any real talent, other than honesty, openness, and fear. Yeah, you heard me right, fear. Or more precisely, reverence. You see, our stories can, and most often will, have an impact on those that are listening, so we should approach our “sharing” with a deep sense of reverence, honesty and openness.
But not only do we impact those who hear our stories, we also are impacted by the telling and retelling of our stories. We are, in ways that are hard to explain, moved by the telling of our stories. We grow when we tell our stories. We discover deeper truths as we tell our stories. We remind ourselves of the truths and insights and the changes we experienced when we tell our stories. Telling our stories is as important for us who are telling as to those who are listening.
Paul often told his story, to remind his readers and himself what God had done in his life (Galatians 1:13-24). He didn’t shy away for the bad side of his stories but he always used them to point his readers and listeners to Christ, just as Jesus did to point people to God.
I have had several occasions in my life where I have sat with a special friend or family member and told my story. These friends and family members were very good listeners. They created an environment that was safe and accepting. They knew that I would need affirmation and comfort to work through my story. And as I shared my story, I slowly moved to a deeper freedom, I received a little more understanding about myself, and I accepted a little more of God’s healing in my life.
You see, whenever we share our stories, we are able to be further released from the things that may be still holding us captive or we might be reminded of the forgiveness we have received or we might be touched again by that sense of joy that we had from that earlier experience. Sometimes, in simply telling our stories, we find freedom. Remember the first time you told someone that you loved them? Remember the sense of freedom you had once you shared that feeling? Remember the time you went to ask forgiveness from someone and, as you shared, you were touched with their love and acceptance?
Stories are windows that we open for others to see inside, inside us and inside them. We should encourage others to share their stories with us. When we allow others to share their stories with us, and we listen, they too are can find these things, especially as we shine the light of Christ on their stories, and ours.
My close friends and family have done that for me.
Psychologist and author Scott Peck wrote that “when we love another we give him our attention…the most common way in which we exercise our attention is by listening.” We need to make ourselves available to listen, to be encouraging and accepting, to allow them to work through the chapters of their life story and to move at their own pace. Another psychologist, Carl Rogers, once said, “If I can listen to what he tells me, if I can understand how it seems to him, if I can sense the emotional flavor which it has for him, then I will be releasing potent forces of change with him.”
Allowing someone to share their story with us may be easy and take only a few minutes, it may be very difficult and take days, weeks or even months. But we can help in the process by listening, encouraging, being engaged with them, and when we do, we will share in the joy of watching them move further towards wholeness.
So, tell me a story…
