The Stories We Tell
When I took this picture today, I just thought it was
interesting. I was in a rush to find my first “picture of the day” and this was
what I found. As I walked home I began to wonder about the story behind this
image. Who put the flower in the fountain? Why did they choose to leave only
one flower? What made them choose that particular flower? Where did the flower
come from? So many questions… questions that I could never really answer
perfectly. Why? Because while so much is present in the picture, even more is
missing. There is a story behind everything…and this is what intrigued me.
After more reflection, what I have come to realize is this…
Stories are powerful. They have the capacity to bring hope,
to inspire, to spur imagination … to make the mundane come to life. Simultaneously,
they have the ability to make fantasies seem real, allowing people to escape…if
only momentarily. In my own experience, stories have enabled me to walk in the
shoes of others. They have taught me how to love and hate. Most importantly,
stories have taught me how to think about myself and the world around me. The problem
with stories though is that the fate of the characters is left to the author.
He or she decides what is to be… or what has been….regardless of what is true. As I reflect on the stories I have come to
hold so dear and often recite unintentionally, I am more and more amazed by my
lack of involvement; especially in those stories where I am the center of
attention. So often, the stories that have the greatest impact on me are those
that are written by someone else. These stories are often only a few pages long…or
a few words long I should say. The authors have not always been my friends,
though many of them have been in the past. They spoke and I listened. I deemed
their projections as TRUTH.
Today, I have decided to revisit these tales… and to rewrite
them. There are way too many gaps and half-truths. Not enough of my story is
real…though I allowed it to be for far too long. In my story I was a victim…and
that’s not true at all. I am so much more than that! In my story I was limited
to the potential that other people saw in me….we all know that I can move
mountains if I wanted to. In my story I had to strive for perfection because
failure meant I wasn’t good enough. I had to strive for acceptance from people
that hardly remembered my name. My identity was formed by people’s stereotypes,
character flaws, and pain. It’s time for a new story…and a new author! Jesus…is
time for your story to be my story.
