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.