I love stories.
One of the things I miss most about my Granny is that she was the
storyteller of the family, always remembering bits and pieces of her life in
the form of a story. In college, I
had a friend who was an enormous storyteller. The guy could go out to run a few errands and come home with
a story that sounded like he had been out having the greatest day ever. I can hear him in his California-drawl
saying, “Dude! You’ll never
believe what happened…” and then he would launch into his story, recounting
some silly thing or other that had happened in the post office line.
I am not an innate storyteller, mostly because I don’t like
to be the center of attention in a conversation. I would much rather listen to others talk, responding and
asking them questions. Having my
story or point of view driving the conversation stresses me out. If I am one on one with someone, that
is different. But even then,
knowing where to approach a story and what details to share or not share is not
something that comes easily to me.
This morningI noticed this verse in Psalm 102:
“These will be written for a generation to come,
That a people yet to be created may praise the LORD.” Psalm 102:18
The words “that a people yet to be created may praise the
LORD” stopped me short and made me think of my kids and the stories I have told
them and the many I have not. It
is not just my children who need to hear my stories, but my grandchildren and
for their children and on and on.
When I think about my life and the stories I have been given
to tell, I see God’s mercy, grace, and kindness all over them. So while I may not always be able to
spin a trip to the grocery store into a funny yarn, I know I can tell of how God
drew me to Him, how He has taught me tenderly and patiently, year after year,
how He has held me up in the midst of loss and how His purposes and His love
make daily life, no matter what the circumstances, always worth living.
