Telling Our Stories

As I’ve confessed before, I continue to be assaulted by second thoughts about this blog.

For one thing, that ancient, crafty demon, What-Will-People-Think-Of-Me, has to be slain over and over again.

It is not as difficult as it might have been at one time. After you’ve lived through certain experiences, you tend to lose some of your self-consciousness.

Kind of like after having babies, modesty in front of doctors becomes a non-issue.

Still, I am always treading the line between privacy and transparency. Reticence and revelation.

Sometimes these second thoughts are triggered by an encounter with someone I know. We might make conversation for a while, and then I’ll say something I assume the person doesn’t know. And she’ll tell me, “Oh, I keep up with you on the internet.”

Period.

No other comment.

A look of… what?

Embarrassment?

Are you embarrassed for me? Are you embarrassed for yourself?

Or am I imagining the whole thing?

Oh, I know. You’re embarrassed for my family.

You see how easily someone who battles insecurity can fall into this trap. (Yes, I’ve bought Beth’s new book. Just haven’t read it yet. It’s in the stack.)

Apart from the latent insecurity and fear of misinterpretation, there is an ever-growing disappointment in myself. There are some pretty decent thematically-congruent posts stalled in “Works In Progress.” They’re growing stale, pushed aside by pot-pouri posts about daily life.

The reason for this is that I don’t have the time, energy or mental alertness right now for deeper thematic writing. To take it to the next level. But I have a very vivid vision of where I want to go. And I am frustrated that I can’t stick with this writing thing for long enough intervals to make it a reality.

So I start thinking, “This is just not the right time to be doing this.” Maybe I ought to stop these unorganized, half-baked attempts until I can do it right. But we all know the right time to write will most likely never come. Time, in general, is running out for me. I sure as heck am not getting any younger.

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Recently, I heard sermons on the exact same scripture on opposite sides of the country within two weeks of each other:

John 4. The woman at the well.

It’s a great passage on many levels. I don’t have time to go into all of them. This is the funny thing, though: Both sermons from two very different pastors with different perspectives brought up the same point.

The woman at the well was a societal outcast. She was at the well in the middle of the day, because she had to avoid the nice ladies who came in the morning. At a time when you could be stoned to death for adultery, she’d shacked up with six different men. She was the lowest of the low, obviously looking for love in all the wrong places in all the wrong ways.

Can you even imagine what her self-esteem must have been like? How many insecurities she must have battled?

But Jesus chose to speak to her. Not to the town hotshots. Not to the priests or the nice synagogue ladies. Not to the most upstanding citizens.

He chose the town tramp.

He reached out in love to someone who was least.

He called her “dear woman.” And he revealed himself to her.

She ran back into town and told her story to anyone who would listen.

And many people believed and received because of it.

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Shortly after hearing the two sermons, I read these words from the incomparable Ann Voskamp:

“…And when you sit down to your keyboard, and you write a blogpost – you are writing for me. You are writing for messed up me, and the messed up woman next door, and the messed up woman sitting beside you in church and messed up you. We need your messy stories. And you need your messy stories.

Why do I need your story and why do you need your story?

Because story is a way that the spirit of God can bind our wounds.

It is in story, we meet the Spirit of God. The reader meets the Spirit of God in the reading of story – the word made flesh in your life. The writer, you, meets the Spirit of God in the writing your story – the word made flesh in your own life.

The Word God wastes nothing and He heals two broken hearts with one story __ the reader and the writer.

Us who are fighting for joy from behind the laundry heap and in the trenches with the crying kids and with the bruised marriages and the crushing debts and the battered, frayed dreams, and we. Don’t. Want. To. Get. Out. Of. Bed – we need your messy, real, authentic, unmasked stories. And you who are fallen and broken and scraped – you need your messy, real, ugly stories. Because in the hands of the Spirit, story becomes a salve to the skinned souls.

The first person that any words ever heal – is the writer of those words.

Because our words aren’t wholly our words.

They are from the Word God Himself.

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I suppose I’ve gotten the message.

But I don’t suppose it’s just for me.

The verb “to tell” is defined as “to give an account or narrative of.”

It appears in the Gospels 234 times.

The Word Incarnate Himself came here to tell.

All of us have stories that are worth telling.

We don’t all have theology degrees. We’re not all writers. Few of us possess the eloquence of public speakers.  Some of us may stumble over our words like Colin Firth in The King’s Speech.

But we are all called to share our messy stories, in whatever form that might take. The Samaritan woman’s story changed lives. If He can use her, He can use any of us.

I’ll keep sharing my stories, even when I think it’s pointless or boring or sloppy or stupid or wordy or weird. Even when I'm feeling insecure and inadequate.

More importantly, I challenge you to share yours.

We need them.

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“Jesus did not let him, but said, “Go home to your own people and tell them how much the Lord has done for you, and how he has had mercy on you.” (Mark 5:19)

“What I tell you in the dark, speak in the daylight; what is whispered in your ear, proclaim from the roofs.” (Matthew 10:27)