The Stories We Tell

With the phenomenon of social media and status updates and cell phones and text messages, it’s no wonder that assumptions fly through the air faster than snowflakes in a winter blizzard.  We interpret our words down to the most miniscule of details, dissecting the meaning behind a statement under a microscope and then further forming an opinion of our own about what was said or not said.

For example, how many times have you been on the receiving end of a text message that was without simple, yet necessary punctuation, especially when that punctuation would have meant the difference between understanding and being entirely confused? 

Enter exhibit A:

 

That comma is unmistakably important, my friends, wouldn’t you agree?

Nonetheless, we live in a hasty world.  Our minds are too boggled and too laser-focused on our next task that the beauty is no longer in the details.  In addition to this, we know what we intended to say, so why can’t others read between the lines and comprehend our thoughts as well?  

What's most frustrating about this is that we expect others to interpret our intentions, but when they receive them in error, we turn around and fault them for it.  And by construing what someone is trying to say, we end up forming stories in our minds that may not be true.  When this happens, defensiveness and a host of other emotions are thrown into the mix, resulting in mass-confusion. 

Before you know it, distinct lines have been drawn in the sand. 

The stories we tell ourselves are incomplete.  It’s like taking a book, opening it up to the very middle and starting to read the story from that point forward.  It doesn’t work that way.  We need the backstory.  We need the details.  We need the beginning. 

The beginning builds the foundation, which then builds on the truth.  It’s our victory over the unknown.  It destroys the assumptions and erases the lines.

 

 

So, my friends, let us seek clarity behind every meaning, and may we remember that the only story we can accurately narrate...is ours.

 

But when you do, please, don't forget the punctuation.

 



 

Offering

Since I, myself, have had my Christmas tree up since November 5^th, I suppose I’m not really one to talk, but for the majority of you, I imagine you are officially running around, bustling and preparing yourselves for the impending Christmas holiday.  For so many, these four weeks leading up to December 25^th can stir up all sorts of unwanted emotions, such as stress, anxiety, and full-on panic.  Family get-togethers may be the very last thing you want to take part in, for all their awkwardness and discomfort.  The lines at the stores can be overwhelming and downright frustrating (price-check on isle 2!) and last but not least, the financial pressure of relinquishing that credit card with each purchase can place such a weight on your shoulders that it’ll take six months just to work it all off. 

It’s no wonder people breathe a gigantic sigh of relief on December 26^th.

About a week back, the Gospel reading for the day broke open my heart to allow some much-needed light to filter in.  If you look up the bible verses online, they’re titled, The Widow’s Offering.  In a nutshell, it tells the brief story of people who are willing to give of what they have.  The wealthy give of their many gifts, yes, but this poor widow, who has practically nothing, also gives of her gifts.  Jesus recognizes this offering, and then most notably, he recognizes the difference. 

Do we give from a spirit of wealth, or do we give from a spirit of poverty?  Do we give from our pocket-book, or do we give from our hearts?  Where is the true sacrifice? 

Tell me, is it more difficult to sacrifice our money, or sacrifice our love?

I was having a conversation one day with someone regarding the practice of abstaining from eating meat on Friday’s during Lent.  He made the very valid point that if you thoroughly enjoy eating seafood and so on those particular Friday’s, you go out to Red Lobster and gorge yourself on all things covered in butter and deliciousness, that’s not really a sacrifice, is it?  The point, the true intention, has been overlooked. 

Where will your spirit of giving, of sacrifice, emanate from this holiday season? In a world where more seems to be the end-goal, how can we set aside our stresses to achieve our true intention? 

Our heart’s offering?    

Lines

It’s almost as if it happened instantaneously, regardless of knowing full-well this is not the truth.  But every once in a while, I will look around at little kids who are running and chasing each other through their yards, or riding their bikes down the street, and then notice as they stop for the briefest of moments to catch their breath before taking off in a flurry again.  It seems as if their energy is boundless…and mine, very often, is not.

I wake up in the morning and groggily talk myself into escaping from the warmth of the covers.  It takes me walking a full step or two before the kink loosens from my lower back and even a few more steps before the arthritis that’s settling in my hip gives way.  I walk into the bathroom, turn on the light, and look directly into the effects from the previous night.  My face indicates the signs of a deep and restful sleep.  I look down at my arms and notice that they’re clearly marked with sheet-imprints, and my hair is tousled and unmanageable, to say the least.  I rub my eyes in circles with my fists; a last-ditch effort to fully awake to the day ahead.  I glance ever so slightly back at the mirror and catch my true reflection, which is precisely when they stop me in my tracks. 

Wrinkles.

I stagger forward toward the mirror for closer examination and I’m astounded at how thin the skin around my eyes has become.  Was it always this way, I think?  The lines of age are profound and while I can do my best to mask them with a day’s worth of makeup, I can’t forget they’re there.  When did I grow old, I wonder? 

I’m afraid that as the years continue to pass, my reflection will only mirror deeper lines and thinner skin right back at me.  Yet just as the wrinkles I have now do, each future line will tell a story.  And, when it comes down to it, isn't that the best part?   

My life has been full and interesting and grace-filled, in every imaginable way.  My wrinkles are from those endless amount of days when I cried myself to sleep – for my own heartache and for the heartache of others.  And they’re also from those moments of being doubled over in a complete fit of laughter.  From the smiles given to family and friends and then extended to complete strangers.               

 

There are days when I want nothing more than to turn the odometer back, to reverse time and be as vibrant as those little kids who run and chase each other.  But with each year and with each additional wrinkle, it's important to remember how we are growing to become more and more authentic. 

And that, my friends, regardless of age, is the purest form of beauty.