Tell Me a Story

For the last seven years, I have driven to the barn pretty much every Saturday morning between 9:00-10:00 in the morning, and for the last seven years, as often as I could, I listened to as much as I could of Stuart McLean's The Vinyl Cafe. I am late to The Vinyl Cafe; apparently, it has been running for two decades. I have grinned and laughed and thought and even shed tears with Dave and Morley and the gang. I have lingered in the car to ensure I heard the end of the stories, and when I heard the words, "I'm Stuart McLean; so long for now," I would turn off the ignition, sigh, wipe tears, laugh again, and get out of the car.

This past Saturday, I missed Stuart. I was just a bit too late leaving the house, and all I heard was the final song of his story-and-song show. That made me especially sad because this last Saturday was Stuart McLean's last show. He's leaving The Vinyl Cafe in order to fight cancer - melanoma. The airwaves next Saturday will be lonely without that slightly raspy voice that always sounds like it's smiling. I will miss his stories.

I have often marvelled at the genius that is Stuart McLean. He tells simple stories - stories about ordinary folk, absurd folk - in a simple way. He read his manuscripts straight up, no extemporaneous speaking, no stand-up comedy, just a well-written story read well, and people flocked to listen. I wonder sometimes if we have a bit of a snobbish attitude toward stories. We adults listen to propositions, lectures, sermons, speeches, and TED Talks, but stories? Stories are for children. And yet . . . here was a guy who read stories in halls around the country, and people bought tickets to hear him, and they tuned in to listen to him on the air. Nothing high-tech. No computer-generated imagery, no special effects, no 3-D, immersive, large-screen glitz. Just a voice. A quiet, wry, raspy voice. And we listened and laughed and cried and thought and laughed and cried some more. Dave and Morley became friends. We cried when their dog died. We laughed when Dave got himself into his endless scrapes; he was so much like all of us. We were glad when the two of them, even when it was really tough to do so, made choices for love and loyalty and kindness and decency and courage and neighbourliness. Just a story, but it made our lives richer.

That's the beauty of story. It disarms the hearer. It draws him in and gets him invested and then it turns and prods and convicts.

God knew that. I think that's why so much of Scripture is written as a story. "In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth," and we immediately recognise the opening lines of a story. Oh sure, there are laws and psalms and letters and sermons, but underlying all of them is a story. Think of how many psalms are embedded in story, just as an example. Because while we are taught by law and psalm and letter and sermon, we connect most deeply, I think, with story.

Jesus knew that. I think that's why he told so many parables. Oh sure, he gave instructions and teachings, but so many times he answered with a story. The story has a way of getting in behind defenses and presuppositions and forces us to look at things through new eyes. Instructions and teachings are important, but they engage the head. Sometimes it is the heart that must be turned, and the heart is most easily turned, I think, by story.

But we are a society that has lost our story. There was a time, not so many years ago, that most people shared a story. The fancy word is "metanarrative". Most people knew and believed the biblical master-story, at least at some level. That is no longer the case. We no longer know the story. And, I think even as a church, we have lost our sense of story. We have relegated the story to Sunday school, considering the story to be the "milk" from which we must grow up so that we can eat the "meat" of theology (or something), forgetting that story is also theology. We no longer trust story.

But the really awful kicker is that we no longer trust proposition, either. Information and mis-information is so easily obtained. "Fake news" has become a thing. Pictures lie all the time. We live in a "post-truth" society that is suspicious of all proposition, lecture, sermon, speech, and TED Talk. We don't know what or who to trust anymore.

I wonder if the two are connected. Perhaps when we cast off story as something childish and silly, something from which we grow up, our theology loses its moorings and is cast adrift into "post-truth". I wonder if, in our quest for solid proposition and sound theology, we have forgotten the power of the good story well told. Of course, the solid proposition and sound theology are important, but so is the story.

Stuart McLean knew the power of story. For 20 years he wrote and read stories for and to adults. People didn't come to his shows to hear propositions about Dave and Morley. They came to hear stories.

Perhaps we should take a page out of his book. Perhaps we should return to the story. Perhaps we should tell more stories. Perhaps we need to remember that the story is theology, too.

"Tell me the old, old story of unseen things above,

Of Jesus and His glory, of Jesus and His love."

Hitting Refresh

This entry is one just for Special K, who is one of the richest blessings in my life, and whom I adore. She is tall and beautiful and smart and talented, but mostly, I love how she loves Jesus. She is kind and wise and reflects his heart.

She came to me yesterday and said, "I love your blog, Aunt Mari."

"You love my blog??"

"Yeah, I love your blog."

I said, "I haven't written anything in quite a long time."

I thought, You read my blog? Why would a kid read my blog? But then I realised, she's not a kid. Somewhere over the years, she has grown up into a woman. And she reads my blog. Crazy.

How does it happen, this passing of the years? When did my Special K change from a little girl to this tall, willowy, beautiful young woman who looks down on me and yet still looks up to me? When did all of my rich blessings turn from toddlers to teens to adults with significant others? Oh, there are still toddlers in the mix, but still. Most of them have become adults who tower over me.

When talking about work with someone some time ago, this person said to me something along the lines of, "Well, you have just this one thing," referring to my job and the fact that I don't have a husband and kids. I smiled inwardly at that, reflecting on my life, and I have thought of it often since. No husband and kids. Just a job. And nieces and nephews and brothers and sisters-in-law and a mom and a housemate and friends and more friends and a horse and a dog and hobbies and ministries which all often get short-shrift, because I am busy with "just that one thing". And the seasons come and go and the years slide by and Special K has grown from a girl to a woman who reads my blog.

I love my job. My job is more than a job; it is also a ministry. I love my students. They are also a blessing. And due to the fact that I have bills to pay and no one to help pay for them but me, I spend a fair bit of time at that one thing. But oh, my life is so much richer than that. And when I am surrounded by those brothers and sisters-in-love and nieces and nephews who crowd in for a selfie with Aunt Mari, who play Skittles games with me (eating Skittles and trying to pull out matching colours without looking), when I look at tables groaning under the burden of good food, when I hear a roar of laughter from a room full of people who laugh just like me, when I look ahead to a week where "just that one thing" is off my schedule and my schedule fills up with visits with friends and family and pets who have waited patiently for me to be finished with that one thing so that I have more time for them, and I hear my Special K tell me she reads my blog, I think, Just that one thing? I have so many things. So many unbelievable gifts and blessings from a Father who has given me abundantly more than I could have ever asked for or imagined.

And I need to remember that. I need to remember that I do not have "just that one thing", or that one thing could swallow up the years and consume my time and heart until all I have left is "just that one thing". Lord, teach me to number my days aright, that I may gain a heart of wisdom.

"I haven't written anything in quite a long time."

"I know," she said. "I keep checking. I keep hitting refresh."

So this one is for Special K. I love you more than you will ever know, my dear. You are a gift straight from God to me.

Ok, luv. Go ahead and hit refresh.

I will do the same.

Dear Younger Me

"Dear Younger Me, where do I start?

If I could tell you everything that I have learned so far,

Then you could be one step ahead . . . " (MercyMe).

Dear Younger Me,

If I could go back and tell you what I know now, what would I tell you? How would I change the choices you made? If, by some divine power, I could go back and change the course of history for you, how would I do it? After all, I've learned a lot in the years I've lived between now and then.

I've learned that I can't carry the world on my shoulders. They are, though far wider than they were when you were seven, still far too narrow to carry that weight. I've learned that I can't change other people. I am not responsible for the choices they make. I can't take ownership of everyone else's feelings. All I have control of, and then only by the work of the Holy Spirit in me, is myself. I have learned that I am responsible for my own actions. I can allow God to change me, painful step by painful step. Pulling up those roots of sin and brokenness hurts like bully sometimes. And my feelings, in all their wondrous complicated mess are mine alone to deal with appropriately, before the throne of grace. Younger me, I could tell you these things so that you do not attempt to carry burdens not yours to carry on your skinny seven-year-old shoulders.

I've learned that perfectionism is a curse. Sometimes good enough is good enough. There is great freedom in giving one's best in the circumstances and then walking away. The world will not cease to rotate on its axis if the dishes remain unwashed and the bed remains unmade. You will not cease to wake up in the morning and the world will not hate you if you fail to achieve perfection. And if the world does hate you, achieving perfection is not going to change their minds. I could tell you these things, and make your life a whole lot less stressful.

I could teach you that tears are wholesome and healing, that feelings just are. They are not good or bad (although they can be good-feeling or bad-feeling), and you are not good when you feel good-feeling feelings, or bad when you feel bad-feeling feelings. You are simply human. There are good ways and bad ways to express those feelings, but you can feel them all. What is more, you can control them all. They do not have to control you. I could tell you all these things, and perhaps your life will be fuller, more nuanced, richer, more alive.

Or I could tell you about love. (Oh, not about THAT kind of love, younger me - I still don't know anything about that, sorry!) I could teach you that love is worth it, despite the incredible risks. Yes, your heart will be broken. It will be shattered into a million pieces, sometimes by betrayal, sometimes by death, sometimes simply by the stretch of time. But love is worth it. Because life is so much richer with love than when the heart is locked up into a cold, impenetrable prison, untouched by love.  I could teach you these things, and open your eyes to a world of friendship and kindness.

I could tell you that all those little things that make you, you are just fine. I could assure you that it's ok for you to read your stacks of books, to hide your open books in your desk, or under the table, or under the sheets with a flashlight. (Well, ok, maybe you shouldn't hide your open book in your desk, but I surely do understand.) I could tell you that your fascination with science and history and geography are perfectly wonderful, that your disdain of fashion and makeup and movie stars is fine,  that these things make you interesting, not weird. (Well, ok, they make you weird, but I could tell you that weirdness is something to celebrate, not to fear.)  I could tell you that your need to be alone is just as acceptable as others' needs to socialise are acceptable. I could tell you that you are just fine. I could tell you these things, and maybe remove the crush of condemnation and oddity from off your narrow shoulders.

Younger Me, I could tell you about Jesus. Oh, I could tell you about the One who loves you wildly, extravagantly, not just when you're good, but even when you're bad. I could tell you about how he created you in all your wondrous mad glory, and gave you gifts and talents and abilities he gave to no one else in quite that constitution. I could tell you about how wildly fond he is of you, how he not only loves you, but how he likes you. I could tell you about how he has hovered over you, always near (but not always obvious), always caring, always guiding. I could tell you of the tears he has wept for you, the laughter he has laughed, the joy that is his when he sees you. Younger Me, I could tell you how he is all you have ever longed for. I could tell you how he fills in all the gaps and holes and cracks left by life, and how he spills out through those gaps and holes in a glorious shine.  I could tell you these things, and maybe spare you years of crushing separation from his love.

Younger Me, there is so much I could tell you. There is so much I could change, if I knew then what I know now.

But I won't. I can't.

Because I have learned the things I know now precisely because you did not know those things then. There was no other way to learn them. Oh, I suppose others might be able to learn these things in other ways. But you're not they. And that's ok.

You learned these things one precious, painful step at a time, tutored lesson-upon-lesson by a faithful, faithful God who carries you. And to eliminate the lessons would be to eliminate the things I now know. And I wouldn't change what I know now for the world.

Because, ultimately, what I know now is not so much what I know, as Who. And Younger Me, He is worth it. So worth it.

So carry on. Gut it out, Younger Me. Make your mistakes. Feel your heartbreaks. Suffer your pain. God is there. He is teaching you himself, about himself.

And he is worth every heartache you are feeling, every tear you cry, every joy you feel, every dream you dream, every wish you wish.

He is worth it.