The Making of a Story

Remembering a story is a little like taking a box of photos off the shelf, lifting the lid, and spreading the pictures out on the table. Each, a moment frozen in time. One by one, we pick them up, study them, compare them. Often the subjects overlap or the same scene has been captured from another perspective. We discover we can't always place the pictures--or the story--in a linear sequence. Rather, they represent multiple layers of experience. They illustrate the observations and perceptions of both participants and bystanders in the story. As we sift through the photos, we recall each occasion. Emotions come rushing back. And as time passes, we try to comprehend how each picture, each story, fits with the others in our lives.

So, how does one go about writing a story?  What is the process of recording memories, thoughts, and passions? I like to think of a story as a snapshot. One moment frozen in time. What led up this picture? Who are the people? What are they doing? Why? What are they thinking? Feeling? Hearing? Seeing? Tasting? Smelling? What are the implications of what is represented? What will happen next? Who or what is missing? How does the image affect you today? What could or should have happened? How does the snapshot affect the future?

One picture. One story.

Your snapshot may be an actual photo or an image indelibly fixed in your mind. A longer story strings any number of pictures together like an old-fashioned filmstrip, one scene at a time.

Perhaps you've always wanted to do a little writing. Or, maybe this is a new thought for you. Here's an opportunity:

Got wisdom? Why not share it through your writing?

 

Join Sherry Boykin, founder of But-Kickers: Growing Your Faith Bigger Than Your "But," for a fun writing workshop on how to identify your story, how to address a specific audience, and how to write memorable material.

 

Free and open to all.

 

Friday, April 17 at the Scranton, PA Steamtown Mall, Library Express,

10:30 a.m. - 2:30 p.m. Click here for more information and to register.

 

Because He Lives

Easter morning brings back the memory of a story, a story that turned apprehension into hope.

 

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"Pregnant! The word jolted me as I listened to the nurse's voice on the other end of the line. I was thirty-eight with an eleven and fourteen-year-old, and God wanted me to raise another child?

I decided to keep the news quiet as long as possible. I felt embarrassment mixed with panic and needed time to get used to the idea. At the same time, I felt guilty when I thought of the many who longed for a child and found themselves grieving with empty arms.

 

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A few weeks later, Easter Sunday found us visiting my parents' church. I felt as green as the dress I wore. God must have smiled as the service began. He had a special message just for me, one I would carry with me for a long time. It came in the from of a song, one written by Bill and Gloria Gaither when they, too, were expecting a child.

 

This child can face uncertain days because He lives!

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow . . . I know He holds the future . . .*

 

Tears sprang to my eyes as I squeezed my husband's hand. The resurrection of Jesus . . . Of course! Because He lives, I could trust Him with our future and the future of our tiny secret, fearfully and wonderfully growing deep inside me.

November 1997

 

We named our baby Elisabeth Grace in remembrance of God's promise in 2 Corinthians 12:9. "My grace is sufficient for you . . ." Now a junior in high school, Elisabeth brings her humor, conversation, and friends to the dinner table. How could I have ever doubted God's wisdom? That Easter morning holds a hallowed place in my heart. God's faithfulness during that time has given me courage to face other challenges, far more daunting.

 

I'll always remember the day when Elisabeth, then in elementary school, said to me, "I'm glad my middle name is Grace."

I couldn't trust my voice to answer, but gave her a wobbly smile. Me, too, Elisabeth. Me, too.

 

*Copyright by William J. Gaither, 1971.

 

Friends: Picking Up Where We Left Off

A friend stopped by this past week, one I hadn't seen in years. We had a wonderful time together. I had kept up with her through her family's prayer letter and her blog. She served as my husband's secretary for a while and later became our daughter's first grade teacher. Twenty-some years, a husband, and four kids later she finds herself a missionary--and a breast cancer survivor.


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We reminisced about how her then-fiancé proposed to her in my husband's office suite, about the time her spelling lesson ended when our daughter somehow got her head stuck in a chair, and about how I taught her to quilt while her firstborn baby slept. She brought a couple of quilts with her to show me her latest projects.

But we did more than catch up. Our life stories differed, but we shared many of the same emotions, the same questions, the same favorite Scripture promises.

The same faith.

We picked up where we left off--with easy conversation, straight from our hearts.  


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I like having a friend like that, don't you? There's something special about a relationship that keeps going no matter how long since the last good-bye. How many times had I prayed for my friend during her illness and when her family had special needs? There will always be special connection. 

God has blessed me with other friends like that. I smile when I see their names on the caller-ID, the email, or FB. It's fun to hear their voices when I surprise them with a call. It's always wonderful to pick up where we left off.

Perhaps I need to take a little more time to stop by, pick up the phone, or send that email.

Thanks, Anne, for a wonderful visit. Let's stay in touch! 

When God Gives You a Hand

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I stopped typing mid-sentence.

What was going on? I wiggled my right thumb, pressed the space bar a few times, and wiggled it again. Why did my thumb joint hurt . . . all of a sudden?

My mom's arthritis issues sprang to my mind. She lost the ability to cut apples, peel potatoes, slice bread, and even write well because the joints in her thumbs prohibited her from doing so. My heart sank. Wasn't I a little young for this? Didn't God know I needed my hands to keep house, cook, and write/type? Didn't I deal with enough limitations? And why my right hand?

Another voice echoed in my thoughts, that of a doctor, four years after our car crash. "People who've been victims of trauma develop severe arthritis after ten years." She pointed her finger at me. "You have six years left."

Eight years have passed since then.

The next few weeks, the pain came and went. Some days I could type like normal. Other days I noticed some discomfort, not bad, but enough for me to breathe a prayer asking God to preserve my hand and thumb capabilities.

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A long-forgotten phrase came to me as a whisper at first, nudging me to look it up. I found the words tucked in the writings of Isaiah: "For I, the LORD your God, hold your right hand; it is I who say to you, 'Fear not. I am the one who helps you'" (Isaiah 41:13). I noted verse 10 which says, "I will uphold you with my righteous right hand."

I drew great comfort from these words. God holds my right hand, the very hand giving me trouble. His presence scatters my fears and offers reassurance.   

Humanly speaking, I will pursue a healthy lifestyle, including an anti-inflammatory diet. But every time my thumb acts up, I'm prompted to remember that God promises to hold my right hand with His right hand. He will help me, no matter what the future chapters of my life story hold.

What promises of God have been especially meaningful to you--and why?

Loaves and Fish

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A few loaves and fish in a crumpled sack . . .

"What are they among so many?"

The supply fails to match the vast demand

On grassy slopes.

 

Inside a child's heart,

I lift my offering with meager hands.

Without reproach, He accepts my loaves and fish,

And one by one the needs are met.

Fully satisfied.

Enough!

 

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"My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness."

2 Corinthians 12:9

 

Forty Years a Valentine

My husband's valentine this year noted we met forty years ago this coming fall. "Forty years is a long time, nearly two-thirds of our lives," he wrote. "I'm glad God has allowed us to be together for so many years . . ."

I'm glad, too. I almost lost him nearly twelve years ago in a car crash. I've never gotten over the miracle of his healing.

We spent some time reminiscing about our first Valentine's Day date, a banquet sponsored by the college we attended. I called home, pretty sure the tall, skinny guy from Michigan would ask me to go with him. "I'll need a dress," I told my mom, over 800 miles away. Before Barry even asked me, my mom had purchased yards of double knit red fabric, and my grandma had it cut out, ready to sew. The floor length dress arrived just in time for the special event--at the Chattanooga Choo Choo.

Back then we never thought about where our lives would take us. Maybe it's good we didn't have a map of the future. But looking back, there's an unmistakable red thread of love woven through the dark and bright and in-between shades of the past forty years. Forty years in which two young kids turned into soon-to-be senior citizens.


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We know a little more about love now than we did back then. It's more than stars and hearts and flowers. It's grit, acceptance, prayer, and sacrifice. In a word, old-fashioned commitment.

Happy Valentine's Day, hon. I love you.


What's your Valentine's Day story?

  

What Ya Can't Straighten Up

Crooked. They've been saying this about me from day one.

I was born with clubbed feet and had to wear what my mom called "special shoes," little shoes that looked like they were on the wrong feet, to be worn day and night. Thanks to the faithfulness of my parents, my little feet became straight and normal. I learned to walk without a glitch.

In fifth grade, I added a full set of braces to my smile. After over three years, straight teeth finally triumphed over a crowded overbite.  

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But scoliosis wasn't that easy. Although not a severe case, I'm quite crooked. Surgeons worked around it after a car accident in 2003. Chiropractors shake their heads as they try to straighten me out. One shoulder is higher than the other, my hips are uneven, and on and on.

I'll never stand straight in this life. I've had to accept that.

Some things we just can't straighten up, no matter how hard we try. Bodies, relationships, problems of all kinds. Can you identify?  We're all crooked in one way or another.

There's a little phrase tucked in an ancient prophet's writings that I think about sometimes. "The crooked shall be made straight" (Isaiah 40:4). When ya can't straighten up, a promise like this offers comfort and hope. It's a promise I'm banking on!

I bet you are, too.