Telling your own story
One of my favorite memories from growing up was my father gently pushing his chair back from our dining room table, leaning against the armrest, his voice teasing our dinner guests.
‘I am reminded of a story.’
It wasn’t until I was in my early adult years that I understood how fortunate I was to grow up with a gifted storyteller, but that’s a post for another time.
Our daughter was in middle school when she learned about the composition of stories. Main character, plot, setting, theme, and narrator. I recognized that our family had become too used to using storytelling about a person to tease or embarrass them. Not one of my proudest parenting moments, and by no means the only lack of parenting skill.
But hopefully, this is a post of reshaping one’s story.
If we could understand the main character of a story as the editor of their own story, then the only person who could share any story about that person was the main character. You were the editor of your own story. “Whose story is it?’ became a frequent phrase, a reminder to someone embarking on a story to stop talking or to ask permission to continue with the narrative.
Our young son frequently stood beside me, asking quietly, ‘whose story is it?’ as I was about to launch into a funny incident he had participated in.
Over time, we all slowly learned to respect the rights of the main character of their story, asking permission, ‘It’s your story, but can I share it?’
A couple of weeks ago, my husband and I were sitting in a Sunday School class, listening as participants explored the story of Hannah.
(The story of how we are, once again, trying to find a faith community is probably a series of posts…)
The class leader opened with “it’s a love story, her husband giving her a double food portion, asking her pleadingly, ‘Is my love not enough for you?’ Participants continued to explore the prophet Eli’s taunt ‘Are you drunk?’ referring to Hannah’s quiet voicing of her prayer with only her lips moving.
As a visitor to the group, I understand that they accept my contributions because they are polite. They do not know me, nor my political or theological writings, nor my academic and professional work.
Willing to test their politeness again, I offer my thoughts, ‘it becomes complicated when we listen to Hannah’s story through the narrative of the men who misunderstood her.’
Let Hannah’s own narrative be the strongest and loudest story we listen to.
Hannah’s story was set in the eleventh century B.C. E. One might think that we have moved past holding other people’s stories hostage to our purposes, but I write this post against the backdrop of the Epstein files being forcefully released.
How might the stories of the first victims have shaped the events we are living through now, had the strongest and loudest voice we listened to been those of the survivors?
I envision people seated around a dinner table. Lingering at the table while dessert plates are moved aside, I hope the following phrases are shared: ‘I am sorry, I should have listened, please forgive me for not believing you.’
May we learn to let a person’s own narrative be the strongest and loudest we listen to.
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