Some stories are so fabulously awkward that they just have to be revisited. Like the time that I approached a dear woman who had recently been through bladder surgery. I knew she had surgery, but at the time I had no idea what kind. So, when she quietly confided that she was doing well other than a few accidents, I innocently (and stupidly) assumed....car accidents. And, folks, I responded:
"Oh, I've had several. There's no need to be down about it as long as you're OK."
With a twist of her head, the sweet and patient woman responded: "You've had several?"
"I have. In fact, between you and me, I just had a small one last week. I know they're not fun, but you're not alone."
And that was that. The "accidents" were never spoken about again. It was fabulously awkward and I didn't even know it.
My side of the story makes me cringe to this day. I'm an idiot. And her side of the story? Well, you have to wonder if she doesn't watch every time I walk out of the room while nudging her husband and whispering "maybe she's had another accident."
Geez.
And then there are the stories of remembrance. The other day I was sweeping out my garage and was hit with a very sweet memory of my grandfather. I called the kids outside so they could share in my memory, and I explained with tears in my eyes how Grandpa "B" would spend time meticulously cleaning out our garage every time he'd come to visit. I was flooded with memories of my thoughtful and cheerful grandpa who would always make sure that we had a clean garage, and though he's now physically hindered from doing much of anything, he still has the same cheerful attitude.
Of course, then, I led my kids into an emotionally charged speech about selflessness and the importance of doing things for others. I was envisioning a scene from Braveheart when in reality I was urging my kids in the middle of the garage. And with my broom.
I'm pretty certain that if my kids remember those few moments in the years to come, they may remember two things: Mom loved her grandpa and mom is crazy.
And I'm always amazed by the stories of rememberance about my dad. I love hearing them. These stories are so precious to me and to my family. The stories of how he loved Advent, treasured music, visited them in their home, attended a Cardinal's game with their family, loved on their kids, and even led them to the Lord. Each story is a strand that puts together a beautifully woven picture of a man who was deeply loved.
And yet, I have my own, different stories about my dad. Stories that include hard but important talks about life, arguments over whether or not I could wear a certain dress to church, hugs when he dropped me off at college, reprimands about careless accidents, and a few awkward talks over boys. These are my precious stories to tell.
There will always be significant moments in life we're determined to remember. We were privileged to be a part of the wedding of some dear friends a few weeks ago. I remember on my own wedding day having a friend urge me to "take it all in." I spent time embracing it all by focusing on parts of the day that I didn't want to ever slip away. And so I shared similar advice with this beautiful bride: There will be certain moments you won't want to ever forget. Say out loud that you'll remember them, and I guarantee that you will.
And those moments will one day make up her wedding day stories.
We spent part of Thanksgiving with my mom at her assisted living facility. For a few precious moments, we sat around a large table with my sister and her family and we sang for mom. We sang Christmas songs that declared the story of Jesus. Mom sat quietly in her wheel chair, and I wasn't entirely sure what she thought about the singing until I looked at her face and noticed the tears streaming down. With a huge lump in my throat, I looked down and wondered what she might one day tell about this moment.
Because she can't communicate, I often think about the questions I'll ask her in heaven one day. Among the various questions, I look forward to hearing what she thought of those Thanksgiving day moments. Perhaps the tears were from a deep love for her family, or maybe they were tears of frustration because of her inability to sing along and cradle her grand-babies while singing Away in a Manger. Maybe she was thinking of holidays past when her house was filled with the sounds of kids and grandkids singing, talking, and playing. Or maybe the tears were due to our inability to harmonize. My husband and I tried while singing around the table, and we failed miserably. I'm guessing Mom's tears flowed for many of these reasons. But that is her story to one day tell. And I can't wait to hear it.
As Anne Lamott has said about story-telling: "All of us can sing the same song, and there will still be four billion different renditions."
Every story and different rendition holds significance because they are shared with someone. And the story of the incarnation is no different. Each gospel story sings the same glorious song about the truth of the story of Jesus, but each is told with different detail and different emphasis.
It's the greatest story ever told. The story of God who became man and entered earth as a baby to redeem people like you and me, people who are desperately in need of a Savior. It's a story of a Redeemer who died in a painful and humiliating way because He loves me with a love that I don't always fully understand but daily try to embrace with gratitude and thanksgiving.
This is my story. It's an unlikely story but it's one that has changed me. It's a story that moves me to tears when I think about the daily implications of it; it's a story of mercy, grace, and unconditional love, thanks be to God.
It's a story that compels me.
It's a story filled with all sorts of major and minor keys.
And it's a story that I hope to never stop singing.
