Stories

The 2nd Grader: “Momma, have you ever had stitches?”

Me: Yes, actually. I had them when I was just about your age.

The 2nd Grader: Why?

Me: I was trying to climb up a slide, and I fell off and hit my head on a rock. {which is why I forbid them to perform similar stunts on playground slides}

The 2nd Grader: Did it hurt?

Me: Yeah, it hurt. But, it mainly scared me.

The Kindergartener: How many stitches did you have to get?

Me: I got five right across my forehead. Your granddaddy put them in that night.

And, from there I told them all I remembered about that night and the Smurf bandaid I proudly wore for several weeks afterwards. I still have a subtle scar line on my forehead today.

My dad loved doing stitches. {This strange fact makes me wonder how we could possibly be related since I can’t imagine many things more challenging or distressing than sewing someone’s flesh back together}. But, he liked a challenge. In fact, the last stitches he put in a patient were those he did on the Spouse’s chin when he took a cleat to the underside of it playing flag football. He still has a tiny scar there today, or a battle wound, as he likes to call it.

I’ve never thought much about how the scar on my forehead connects me to a story about my dad. And, the one on the Spouse’s chin connects him to the father-in-law he barely got to know. But that’s what stories do… they connect us to other people. Forever.

I’m always surprised how interested the girls are in stories from mine or the Spouse’s past. They want to know dates and details and draw pictures in their minds of all the stories we can tell about our childhood and the people in it. Story is powerful.

My undergraduate degree is in communications, and my graduate degree is in theological studies. As I was going through school, I imagined one day working in women’s ministries, specifically writing curriculum or doing something {editing, marketing, copywriting/design} within the arena of Christian publishing. With my sights set on Birmingham or Nashville and my focus on getting the appropriate education, I thought a career in that particular industry would come in due time.

But, as is often the case, I thought wrong. And, in retrospect, I’m so thankful I did. I met the Spouse, fell in love with him and his heart, and the direction of our lives steered us back toward home. Rather than becoming a curriculum writer, I fumbled around in marketing and copywriting and soon became a full-time mom to three fun girls who maintains a little family blog on the side. I don’t write devotions or lessons or edit copy for publication. I tell stories about the people {and occasionally the dog} around me and the seasons we’re going through, all just for fun.

Many days I’m tempted to think this is somehow not enough. I see or hear about things happening in the world around us, and something in me wants so badly to process that news by fleshing out my thoughts on those matters in writing. After all, that’s what I believed I was going to school for many moons ago. All that reading and late night paper writing was for that lofty purpose.

Or was it?

It occurred to me sometime a couple of weeks ago after I had just written a deeply profound post about our dog’s unfortunate haircut, that maybe my purpose {at least right now} is simply to write stories about the everyday as it unfolds around me. There is something strangely unifying about children and dogs, too, for that matter. Stories bring together what philosophical debate tears apart. Stories make us laugh or cry or pause or remember. They remind us how human we are. How emotional we are. How alike we are at our core. And they can instantly take us back to times and places we might have otherwise forgotten.

This is a quote from a book the 2nd Grader had to read this year, The Tale of Despereaux, by Kate DiCamillo:

“Stories are light. Light is precious in a world so dark. Begin at the beginning. Tell Gregory a story. Make some light.”

I love this idea. And, I believe it’s true.

I don’t write for a paycheck. I don’t write to be published or even to be persuasive. But I can write snippets of our story and hope they create tiny flecks of light.