Narrative

I have taken a long break from blogging. I’ve always intended to go back to it, but never felt it was time. In hindsight, I think I needed to grow up and build some more confidence. Being connected to social media does not make me confident. In fact, every time I post something online, I feel like I am handing out measuring sticks and asking everyone to size me up. 
But I love writing. My husband tells me he can always tell the difference in me after I have written. In this new year, he has set aside two times every week to give me space to write/draw/journal, to let the things building up inside me flow out into something meaningful. I love words. I believe they are powerful. And I believe choosing good ones matters.

I have a great quote on my wall by Mike Rowe that says:

“When Hamlet was pondering suicide, he didn’t say, ‘I can’t decide if I want to live;’ he said, ‘To be or not to be…’  When Nathan Hale was asked if he had any last words, he didn’t say, ‘Go ahead and hang me;’ he said, ‘I only regret that I have but one life to give for my country.’  Words matter. Choose the right ones and future generations will quote you forever. Choose poorly, and you’ll be forgotten or damned for all time.”

“Narrative” is the word to describe the words we use to talk about ourselves and to ourselves. I believe the words we use in our narratives really, truly matter. I think powerful words feel good in our mouths. Some are spicy. Some sizzle. Some almost crackle with electricity. Sometimes a story where we play the victim feels satisfying. Sometimes we embrace limitations, and turn limiting language into mantras, because they excuse us from unappealing effort. But other times our stories become core memories that become pieces of our identities. Sometimes a story I tell becomes the light that beckons one of my children out of a dark place they feel stuck in.

We have a few family mantras, and one of them is: Look for the most beautiful option. It’s an admonition to not just grab the first, brightest, or loudest thought to capture our attention, but to be still and wait and see if a better thought comes down the stream.

Let me tell you two different stories about Sundays in my house:

One Sunday morning, my 11 year old son got up before everyone and made pancakes from scratch for the whole family. He got up in the dark, got out the binder of recipes he had collected himself, and he got to work. He even made them gluten free so that I could eat them too. Honestly, they weren’t that great, they were unnaturally chewy and a little burnt. But my mama-heart was so delighted by his gloriously generous effort and by the fact that I didn’t have to make breakfast for everyone on a busy Sunday morning. And he even washed the dishes! What a kid! After an early breakfast, my kids all marched outside to do all their farm chores, then came in and got themselves ready for church. We arrived at church early, and got to visit and connect with friends before the service began. My children stayed in the worship service, engaging in heartfelt worship with us, and taking turns holding their baby brother. I even sneaked a couple photos of the precious snuggles going on beside me.

Now let’s pan away from that touching scene and let me present you with another Sunday story: My brother’s family was in the process of moving, and we had his two dogs staying with us, bringing the total number of medium-to-giant sized dogs living in my house to 4! Two of the dogs rolled in the thick black seepage oozing out of the chicken pen after heavy spring rains just as we were getting ready for church. There wasn’t time to bathe them, so we put them in their cages to deal with after church, and then high-tailed it out of the house in a hurry to escape the nauseating smell. On that particular Sunday, I taught my older children’s Sunday School class. My oldest son kept pushing my buttons and interrupting me while I was teaching, pushing the line further and further. I continued firmly correcting him, each time reevaluating the fragile line between embarrassing my son and keeping order in the class. Finally, I asked him to leave as kindly as I could (which undoubtedly came across as barely-controlled rage). After Sunday School, we went into our worship service, where my daughter sat with her arms crossed, sulking because one of her brothers had offended her, her body language making sure everyone knew she did not want to be there and didn’t have a thought to spare for considering her Creator. Finally, we exited church carrying tired children and the million belongings brought along that had grown too heavy for tired little arms. We collapsed in our overstuffed car, begging for quiet civility on the long ride home, where we knew we would be knocked over by the stench of dogs needing several rounds of lather, rinse, repeat.

Have you guessed it yet… that these two stories were the same Sunday? They were.

And this is why I write.

I passionately love to read. Good authors model beautiful narration to me. After following an author’s narration for 400+ pages in a great book, I find my brain having blazed new paths, literally retrained in new patterns of thinking. It is because of good authors, that I am able to intentionally choose my own narrative.  I love words. I love choosing good ones. I love delving deeply into all the narratives that are true, and all the words to tell them. Words to make myself laugh. Words to make myself feel deeply. Words that connect me to God’s tangible presence. Words that fill my heart with overflowing gratitude. And words that are snarky and cathartic. There are so many ways to tell my story. And the stories I tell my family become our family’s memories. Some stories stick while others are lost and forgotten. The funny stories always stick. As do the ones where someone was a hero. Those get told over and over, brought out to entertain friends, or to show new friends who we are, or just to remember ourselves. Stories become memories and memories become identities. As the author and keeper of the stories in my family, I become the author of identities to a certain extent. It is a powerful position. It is a beautiful calling.

“That is the richest meaning of authority. It is the power to author life in others.” -Richard Rohr (in “Simplicity”)

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