Can I Tell you a Story?

June 20, 2016

Kansas City, Missouri

The sun sank and the sky blazed brightly in purple and pink. Perhaps, the master artist drew my daughter’s name out of a hat and set to work splashing her favorite colors over the earth. My gaze lingered there, my brain squeezed dry from another full day of raising my small people. These little ones with their great big souls and extensive reservoir of feelings-- what a great challenge set before us. Staring blankly into the silence, my eyes focused when I realize the masterpiece before me, fading into dusk, brushed in pink, just a little bit of golden light lingering above the trees. A tiny radiant burst floated through the air, and then another near the bush. The large window became a symphony of twinkling light, as if stars were falling in slow motion from the heavens, settling like a shaken snow globe. A private show, a gentle composition of light, I almost heard music washing over the hot, weary finish of the day.

The evening had been a decent struggle, one of those nights where instead of trying to continually feed our lovely children a healthy dinner each night, we considered setting a large bowl of corn flakes in the corner and keeping it full. Someone refused dinner, dared ask for a bedtime snack, confessed to not brushing their teeth, then spent 10 minutes crying about it. Meanwhile, another kid couldn't wait any longer to use the bathroom and well, it's not the largest bathroom. I felt the last little drop of my mothering ability for the day slip away and there was no end in sight for this bathroom-brushing-emotional-hostage-crisis.  Teeth were brushed and legs were washed. I channeled my Anne Shirley spirit animal and reminded my wildfire beauty that she was loved and that tomorrow was a brand new day with no mistakes in it. I collapsed on the couch, where deep laughter erupted from my husband. What else can you do, really?

I've been reading this book, a collection of heart-breaking essays, letters from people seeking answers and hope. It's brutal and equally beautiful. People stuck in a sea of roaring voices, unfriendly, and cruel. Precious souls aching to be heard. Some have never known a minute of living apart from that sea. They're bruised and battered from constantly treading water. They've stuffed their scars and fears inside until the things they carry have eaten them alive, leaving nothing but hollow, rotting shells. Hell on earth. I can't help but wonder, if this writer, the one who takes a minute to listen to each story, to sit quietly in each reality, could her listening be just the spark of light they need to not be swallowed by the darkness.

I’m so certain that this great big aching world is made darker when we stop seeing people as souls with complex and captivating tales. Each devastation we see on the news reconnects us for a moment, to the beating, pulsing heartbeat of humanity and then we fade deliriously into something like existing, blankly staring at everything and seeing nothing at all.   It takes only one long glance to see the deep suffering just beyond our front door. 

Recently, I called my mom, informing her of the sheer craziness of my children. She laughed for a long time before her tone changed and she spoke this pearl.  Your children know they are safe and deeply loved.  You must know, that is half the battle.  There was something in her voice,  on every word, a weight from the deep past.  I know this is true, because…

I can answer without hesitation that I was safe and deeply loved as a child, but my mom knew a different truth.  Most of my life, I knew two things about my grandfather. He was mean and he was dead.   When many children run to greet their father at the door each afternoon, the way I did, the way my children do, they ran in fear.  I saw it as we watched a movie with her last summer, about a family with an angry, drunk father.  I witnessed her past surging through the screen.  She told me stories that I had never heard, a reality I had never known.
 
That night as I slept in a dark basement, I reveled in the grace that allowed my story to be so different.  The redemption that allowed the lives of five children (and now 10 grandchildren) to be planted in safety and love.  Perhaps, it’s true that my parents were less than marvelous at being married to each other, but they were great parents, giving us a life they hadn’t known, half the battle indeed. 

I was nineteen when my parents divorced.  My siblings were still young.  It was a terrible and a bit hellish, but for grace and mercy, one dark season does not make the whole story.  And yet I’ve always dreaded the day that I would have to explain this to my children? Because, we want to protect them from the broken parts, don’t we?  We want to tuck them in a magical snow globe for keeps, but we can’t.

And so, it was last Wednesday, it happened.  Mom, who were your parents when you were a kid?  He knew the answer already, but he was asking a different question.  I inhaled and exhaled a silent prayer and explained, X and Y are my mom and dad.   They were married for a long time, but when I was grown up, they decided they couldn't be married anymore, and it was awful and really hard, but after a while it was okay. I said, sometimes people can get too sad and scared and they stop taking care of each other, or maybe something terrible happens and it's better for them to stop being married. Sometimes life is hard and messy, but God can fix so many broken things, can't he?  They listened and in the pause, I felt the words arranging in their huge, little brains. The question that I dreaded even more, damn cause and effect in action.

Mom… one day, are you not going to stay married to Daddy anymore? I wanted to cry at the awareness they now had.  Inside the past raced like a speeding train smashing into the present, but I didn't hesitate to respond, because one dark season does not make a story and redemption is so deeply interwoven into mine. With confidence and without hesitation and a shaky voice, I answered,
No, we want to stay married forever, and I know that if we take care of each other and take care of ourselves, we can.  

More silence, less painful than before and then a soft voice asked, So, then Grandpa married Grandma?  She’s so nice.  Then Gigi married Allen?  He’s so funny.  

Yes and yes.     We went on our merry way to check out 30 library books and blast through that summer reading program. A moment I dreaded for so long ended up being so much less than I imagined. Maybe it’s that whole bit about half the battle.  Maybe safety and love create a barrier that weakens some of the terrible things.  Surely grace and redemption travel far beyond what we can ever know.  As G.K. Chesterton wrote, “Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed.”

I’ve traveled long and far in the course of this letter, but that is the nature of words.  I set out watching the pink summer sky and I journey deep into the true beauty and pain.  Will you return with me now, to the tired mother, to the fireflies?

I can’t escape this moment, the symphony of light compels me to surrender to the magic.  The weary inside is hushed by wonder and I knock softly on my son’s door.  Hey, come with me for a minute, get your shoes, be super quiet.  We tiptoe down the stairs and out the door, What are we doing, mom? What are you showing me?  I say nothing and hand him a jar, and we stand in the gentle June darkness.  I say nothing, only watching.  So, he says nothing and watches too.  Then, a gasp escapes, fireflies!

Momentary sparks flash unannounced through the air. A burst of light, then fade to black and our eyes dart everywhere wondering where it might appear next. It's always just beyond our predictions, just higher than our reach, but we carry our jars and we keep watch. Quickly overtaken with awe, we are following an invisible maze under the towering branches and leaves that do not rustle in the gentle night. The air is thick and warm. The whole world has faded away, save the fireflies and the delight glowing in our faces.

Mosquitoes buzz in our ears and land on our arms, we swiftly brush them away, for we have work to do. And finally, one gracious firefly lands on a large leaf within my reach and I scoop him into my jar. We do a victory dance in the darkness of night. The jar flickers with light as we watch each flash, the small creature scurrying to and fro looking for just a small opening. Up close, his light is tinted green, almost sickly, is it the jar or something about science? I wonder if it is the color of lost freedom and being contained in a space too small. I don’t believe many living things excel in those conditions.

Quickly, it seems that his light is fading and we agree to release him. In a single second, he soars above our heads, signaling freedom. His light is radiant again.  We agreed to learn more about fireflies, to perfect our hunting techniques, and to include sister next time. We whispered good-night to the stars, moon, and fireflies everywhere, because we've been reading Goodnight Moon to baby sister more times than we can count. And we tiptoed through the quiet house, where a tall, skinny seven and a half year old boy is kissed on the forehead and sent to bed.   I climb into bed and with a gentle kiss rush toward sleep.  A long day softened with a sprinkling of magic.

When Despereaux was sentenced to the dungeon by the council of mice, he met Gregory the jailer, who did not kill or hurt him, but held the tiny, trembling mouse in his hand and said, Stories are light, Tell Gregory a story.

May we stay near the beating, pulsing heartbeat of humanity. 

May we seek out stories full of broken fragments and beautiful hope. 

May we tell our stories, whether they be terrible, vulnerable, or magical and raise them to the heavens, allowing redemption and grace to travel far beyond and below and everywhere.