Tell Me A Story

My earliest memory is as an almost two year old sitting on my mother's lap in our old living room.  Our carpet was a patchwork of multi-colored squares, and I remember calling out the various colors:  "Pink...blue...red...brown...."  The colors were not beautiful.  The carpet was not luxurious.  And honestly, I only remember saying the words, and my mother nodding "yes."  In this way, she acknowledged that what I said was both true and right.  This was my earliest memory, and thus begins the story of my life. 

Almost as early as we can form the words, we begin using this phrase:  "Tell me a story...."  Those were the words I said to my grandfather when we would visit during the summer and he would tuck me in at night.  They're the words my kids use now when they want me to do the same for them.  What is it about "story" that causes us to hear a voice that is not our own and engages us to embrace characters and events we do not know?  This is the very thing that makes story-telling so powerful.  In it, we have the ability to craft the account of a situation in our own words.  In it, characters come to life and empathy is aroused.  We find that our most personal, private thoughts abide, not just within the calloused, walled boundaries of our souls but in others, as well.  Tell me a story, and I'll tell you what I think.

Yesterday, I took my younger daughter to storytime at our local bookstore.  The librarian read one book that we have at home.  The way she told the story differed significantly from the way I tell the story.  The words, of course, were identical yet her inflections and side notes and character voices bore little resemblance to mine.  I wondered to myself which my daughter preferred.  Did she enjoy more the boisterous , interrupting voice of this story-teller or the lyrical cadence of my voice as I cuddled with her before bedtime?  I wondered if she even knew it was the same story.  The setting and context shaped her cognizance for internalizing it.  We've all experienced the internal discord that occurs when we hear accounts of the same event from two different people.  The story itself is the same, but the word choice and perspective, coupled with our emotions, dictate how we process the information. 

I have been working with fourth and fifth grade girls on this very thing for the last two years, and even though they enjoy reading and hearing stories, they have a very difficult time telling a story in their own words.  Accessing buried memories, recognizing pivotal moments, and verbalizing future dreams work together to validate the life we live.  Understanding the stories other people tell gives us credibility for the way we think and provides a framework for the way the world operates.  I want my children to be comfortable telling their story.  I want them to understand that their life is a story, a story of course that has value because it's fleshed out within the context of the greatest story ever told.  And because I believe this is true, I too, play a major role in determining how the plot plays out for them.  Will it be a story they want to tell?  

In this, I am reminded of an old Seinfeld episode in which George is dating a girl who, by her own account, is very succinct.  She "yada, yadas" over the best part of all her daily business.  Towards the end of the episode, George declares, "I gotta tell you, I am loving this yada yada thing. I can gloss over my whole life story."

George, why would you want to do that?   I belong to a Community Group through my church that requires us, at the formation of each new group, to tell our life story.  It's always my most favorite part of group.  Some people choose to tell their story within the framework of the few most challenging or inspiring moments of their lives.  Others use pictures to guide them through the timeline of their years here.  Unfortunately, though, a few of them "yada yada" over the best parts and miss out on the connectedness that is available to those who are most transparent. 

Tell me a story--your story, the one that belongs only to you.   It's yours, but I bet it's mine too.  And that's what makes it true and right.  Let's begin....