Tell Me Your Story

Tell me your story.  Sometimes on a run, when I’m listening, a word or phrase will bubble up from somewhere in my brain and become my mantra for the run—sort of a runner’s lectio divina.  Today’s phrase was, “tell me your story.” Troubled by the news of earthquakes and violence and loud shouts of of “WHY?!?! and What can I do?” swirling in my head, “tell me your story” quietly appeared in response.

Tell me your story.  Tell me your experience with poverty.  Tell me your experience with wealth.  Tell me your story of opportunity.  Tell me your story of oppression.  Tell me your story of exclusion.  Tell me your story of inclusion.  We all have stories.  They are all valid.  Until we really start listening to each other, I don’t think we are going to make progress.  We have to go through it, not around it.  We have to look each other in the eyes and tell our stories. When I want to improve my running performance, I remind myself to get comfortable with being uncomfortable.  A life lesson, really.  If we want to improve conditions and relationships, we are all going to have to get comfortable with being uncomfortable. Tell me your story.  Your story may not make me feel great about my actions.  Mine might not make you feel great, either. Tell me your story, anyway.  I acknowledge that the issues we face are far more complex and cannot be solved with simple conversations, but it will change both of us. It will change how you feel about me and how I feel about you.  Tell me your story.  

After a cold, rainy weekend, the sun finally came out on Sunday evening.  A friend and I were in the community garden checking on the spinach and peas and pulling weeds.  Also in the garden, were a young mom and her energetic two-year old daughter.  They were enjoying each other and the playground.  My friend is more gifted at starting up a conversation than I.  I’m more a gifted listener and observer. So I listened.  During the course of that conversation we learned that this young woman and her husband live with their daughter in an apartment complex just down the street.  Sunday is her only day off.  She works a couple of jobs and still has trouble making ends meet.  We encouraged her to come back and pick some spinach and to come to the block party.  A random encounter in the garden does not seem so random today.  She was telling her story.  And that’s where we start: in the garden, on the street.  Tell me your story.

Social Media and Going Overboard...Almost

I’m sitting in a doctor’s office waiting for an eye exam.  My arms have finally become too short to help my presbyopic (that's not even a word) eyes read the Presbyterian hymnal on Sunday mornings.  While sitting here, I've been thinking about how, in recent days, I've been reminded by Glennon Melton, Anne Lamott and Mark Hinds that my story, in my voice, needs to be heard because it’s mine alone.  What follows is what has been on my mind this week.

I've mentioned before that I have a love-hate relationship with social media.  In recent weeks I find  I’m disappointed that society hasn't evolved as far as I had thought (or devolved) and, at the same time,  dreading the negative rhetoric that will appear on my timeline as we head into the 2016 political cycle. Just when I was beginning to think I should pull back from social media a bit, a couple of great things happened.

First, a friend put out a request for positive messages to be given to LGBTQ youth struggling to find their place in this world.  The messages that flooded the comment section were amazing.  Who among us doesn't want to be reminded, once in a while, that he/she is a child of God, wonderfully made and that the light he or she shines is vital to our world.  We belong to one another.  Social media did that.

Second, a re-connection with my very first friend (at least one that I remember) made me re-think a pull back.  I remember the day we met.  We had just moved into our Lake City neighborhood.  My dad told me we had met some neighbors who had a girl about my age. He took my 5-year old, incredibly shy hand and walked me over to their house.  I don’t remember what we talked about.  I just remember thinking I had my very first friend.

I remember their yard had a stream that ran through it and a huge (in my 5-year old eyes) garden.  There was a bridge over the stream that led from one part of the yard to the garden.  I remember spending long Seattle summer daylight hours building dams in that stream, each time trying to make the resulting pond deeper and deeper.

We walked the mile (uphill, of course) to school together every day.  The walk never seemed to take very long—until, one day, my friend was home sick, and I had to walk by myself.  My mom gave me a stick of gum (probably the one and only time I broke a school rule until Senior skip day) and assured me I could do it.  That was probably the first mile I ever ran.  I didn't enjoy it.  I made it to school in record time, I’m told.  I learned later that my mom watched me with her binoculars until I reached the top of that hill.  I slyly chewed that piece of gum ALL day. I've always been a quiet rebel, ;-)

The night before we moved to LA, my parents took my friend and me to my favorite Mexican restaurant for a farewell dinner.  That was a hard goodbye for me.  My first goodbye.  My parents promised we would see her every time we visited Seattle.  They kept that promise—no matter how packed our visits were, they always made sure I had time to see her.  That was such a gift.  We wrote letters to each other on our Current stationery (anyone else remember that stationery).  We always picked up where had left off on our last visit.

When I was 16, my parents let me fly from DC to Seattle by myself.  Props to them for letting a 16-year old with a plane change in Chicago do that.  Before cell phones.  Before e-mail.  Before online flight tracking.  The only way they knew I had arrived at my final destination was when I called them from my grandparents’ house.

On that visit, my friend spent several days with me at my grandma’s on the Olympic Peninsula.  Grandma and great Aunt Lucy took us to Victoria, B.C. for the day.  It was a glorious day.  The water was pretty choppy on the ferry ride back.  The ferry kept rocking back and forth—so much so, we went out on deck for some fresh air.  We held on to the railing for dear life.  Just as we decided to head back inside, the ferry listed toward the water and a huge wave washed overboard.  We were pelted with cold sea water.  We aren't talking about a small boat.  We are talking about a 341 foot vessel capable of holding 1000 passengers and over 300 cars.  To list that close to the water was frightening, to say the least.  For a second, I was sure we were going overboard. When we made our way inside, Grandma and Aunt Lucy reported that everyone inside let out a collective gasp when they saw what was happening.

The last time I saw my friend, she was on a band trip to DC.  She had gotten permission to spend the night with us in Virginia.  We, as usual, picked up right where we left off.  We continued to write one another as we went off to college.  And then life and jobs happened, and I lost touch with her.  Every time we were in Seattle, I wondered where she was.  It turns out, not too far from the places we hang out when we are there. So, today, social media is a gift in my life. 

Thanks for listening to me ramble as I waited for my eyes to dilate.  And, just in case you are wondering, a pair of progressive lenses is in my future.  Maybe I’ll, once again, be able to read the notes on an unfamiliar hymn.  I can’t promise that I’ll sound good.  They aren't magic glasses, after all.