Everyone has a story. Everyone has a story, but more often than not, most of us don't have the time or the interest in finding out these stories. For me, this is particularly true when it comes to the people that I just don't know well: neighbors, acquaintances at my kid's schools, the guy at the checkout counter who is consistently there, and the woman at Starbucks who seems to mess up my order every single time - I mean, a tall, non-fat, no whip, half-calf, two pump, caramel latte isn't that hard to get down. This is my argument. My husband refuses to ever order for me and has all the sympathy in the world for the Starbucks lady.
We may develop a quick opinion of who these people are and what they're like, but rarely do we find out their story. Who has the time? So, all too often, I know I let my superficial opinions of people suffice, and walk out of Starbucks sure that I've got that lady figured out.
About ten years ago, I was spending a great deal of time in the ICU at St. Louis University Hospital where my father was battling cancer. My oldest, Ella, was only a few months old at the time, so I would pack up her stroller each day, and since children were not allowed in the ICU Rooms, I would spend the majority of the day with Ella in the waiting room. I would stroll her around the halls while she fought sleep and although it was cold outside, if the crying was too much, I'd bundle up my champion sleep fighter and we'd stroll around outside until she finally dozed off.
When she was awake, I would sit her up in the stroller and play games with her, feed her, and do anything I could to keep her entertained so that she would remain happy enough for me to stick around. And then for a short while, my mom would come out and play with Ella while I went back to the room to be with my dad. Ella and I kept this routine for weeks.
On one of these routine mornings, I arrived up at the ICU shortly before Ella's nap time. I began strolling her around and noticed another woman sitting in the corner of the waiting room. She was clearly agitated and became more and more so the longer I strolled.
And then she couldn't take it anymore. "Do you really think the ICU is a place for infants?"
What could I say? Too exhausted to tell my story, I got on the elevator, headed down, and began crying. As I was bundling up Ella to stroll her around outside, one of the nurses from the ICU came off the elevator.
"Hey. I'm a mom myself, and I know how hard it can be with a baby. I've been watching you each day....Why don't you just go ahead and take your daughter up to your dad's room."
I told her I understood the rules and that I could wait.
She went on to tell me her story: "My dad died before I had children. To this day, I wish he could have held them before passed away. Why don't you take your daughter up and let your dad hold his grand baby while he still can."
She had a story and she shared it with me because she took the time to observe mine. That one way conversation, due to my tears, is one of the most beautiful I have ever had.
Last night, we had the opportunity to experience a five course dinner put on by John Perkins and his awesome team of chefs. We sat at a long table, mostly filled with strangers, and all with a story.
At the end of the table was a completely bald man, sporting a very long and very bushy beard and his entire right arm was covered with an eye-catching tattoo. He was a former New Yorker and owned the coffee shop where the dinner was hosted.
A former New Yorker who now had a coffee shop in St. Louis, MO. I was sure that I had met people like him before: someone restless who likes a challenge; perhaps he doesn't mind change (that had to be true to move from New York to Saint Louis), and noting the size and intricacy of the tattoo, I figured he probably didn't mind standing out.
But then something remarkable and quite humbling happened. I found out his story.
"So," I began, ashamedly nearing the end of a three hour long dinner," what were you doing in New York? Did you own a coffee shop?"
He laughed. "No, no. I was a lawyer."
Wow. A former New York lawyer now coffee shop owner with a bald head, bushy beard and tattoo. Maybe he was laid off.
"So, why did you move to St. Louis?"
His eyes filled with tears. "My brother became sick, and so I moved here to help him."
He quit his job and moved to St. Louis to help his ailing brother. So different from the story I gave him.
I was taken back by his reason for moving, but for no apparent reason. After all, I was simply hearing his story.
"So, how is your brother now?"
"He passed away." The pain was so evident. His face, his voice, and his tone all painted a picture of a tight bond that was pulled apart all too quickly.
After several moments, a friend inquired about his tattoo that clearly covered a good portion of his right side.
And here was his story:
"It was so hard for me to watch my brother go through such painful treatments and not be able to help him. I felt as though I wanted to endure something painful in order to empathize with what my brother was going through, even if in a very small way. So, I decided to get this tattoo for my brother, and I thought of him during all thirty six hours of it."
Now my eyes were filled with tears. Oh, how I empathized with this man. Over the past year, I've watched my own sister face cancer and the torments of chemo and radiation and have been able to do virtually nothing but pray her through the treatments.
I looked at this man as he talked for several more minutes, and suddenly I saw him in such a different way. Why? He looked exactly the same as he did when the evening began; the difference being that I heard his story.
We all have one. And maybe, just maybe, if we're willing to listen, we may even find that someone has one similar to ours. And when we hear them, the world curiously turns into a smaller place. After all, isn't this what Jesus did for us? He shared HIS story so that we can have our own.
I hope to run into the Starbucks lady in the near future. More than likely, she has story that needs to be heard.
