The Weekly Fare . . . February 11, 2003

Tell Your Story . . . Listen Well

If you had asked me when I was six years old what I wanted to be when I grew up, I'm not sure what I would have answered. But I do know it would have been "big" - a Fireman, a Policeman, a Soldier or a Garbage man. (They got to ride around on the back of those cool trucks . . .)

Such jobs / people are still "big" in my eyes, but they wouldn't have been on the slate if you had asked me at age twelve - a Football Player, a Downhill Skier, a Pilot, a Lifeguard. I'd have signed a lifetime contract to sit in that chair all day long twirling a whistle. (Probably still would if someone made the offer . . .)

At eighteen, I would have had a whole new list for you - a Rock Star, a Movie Producer, a Mountaineer or perhaps an Indy 500 driver . . . (I drove like one, I might as well have been paid for it.) The reality was that I spent my summers packing bolts in a 110 degree aluminum sided warehouse. At eighteen, our dreams rarely approximate our realities. In my case this was an understatement worthy of national recognition.

At twenty- four my list had become quite short. I was fresh out of college and I needed a job - any job. With memories of summertime bolt packing fresh in my mind, riding on the back of that truck was beginning to look pretty good. But the job came soon enough and considering how things have come together over the last seventeen years I can't complain. I've worked with some of the finest people anywhere and have been blessed to be part of some extremely successful organizations.

But it's not really "my story." It's not who I have come "to be." Lately it has occurred to me that we are surrounded by the untold stories of so many of the people who walk in and out of our lives (some almost daily), and yet we so rarely know who they really are.

An elder fishing buddy of mine, who has never spoken of his "early years," recently allowed me to read a short memoir he wrote at the behest of his Alumni Association. It detailed his college days and later his medical residency in the early 1940's as he rode troop transport trains across the U.S. attending to the injured and dying from the battlefields in Europe. As I read his fascinating account of this unique bit of history, I had a much greater sense of who "Jack" really is, and a far better understanding of why he is one of those guys that would "give you the shirt off his back." I had already grown to appreciate the genuineness and candor of the man on the surface. Knowledge of just a small part of the depths of his experience grew that appreciation immeasurably.

Not long thereafter I was given the opportunity to read a similar memoir from another friend that detailed his early years before he entered the ministry. It was comforting to know that during one particular stretch of teen-hood "Bill" was once as human as the rest of us - if not more so. The trials and tribulations he faced early in life, including a bout with cancer in his late teens, helped form the foundation of a ministry that 35 years later has reached thousands of hearts. Bill's intellect is matched only by his integrity and his passion for the God of creation. He could have served him anywhere, but lucky for a large number of Presbyterians he chose to "tell his story" here. Knowing this greater part of it has deepened the incredible inspiration he has already been.

Another good friend of our family is a semi-retired industrialist who's dogged determination has kept his company afloat in both good times and bad. In turn he has provided a good livelihood as well as a safe and friendly working environment to hundreds of employees over the years. He's never really sat down and told me his full story. But I know from watching my father, a small business owner himself, that "Al" must have also made the late-night visits to hospitals, the loans with little expectation of return and the heartfelt prayers for others that were always part of the job.

But if you knew either of them at any sort of distance you'd have no idea who they were or what they were really about. How could you? They never talk about it.

So often we make assumptions about the lives of those around us - we categorize and pigeon-hole one another to the degree of being comical if it didn't take us so far from the truth. It's human nature, I suppose, that when little information is known, we fill in the missing spots from our collective experience. In doing so we often cheapen the unique beauty of so many lives that overlap our own. And it's not just strangers or even friends, but family as well. How often do we hear at someone's passing when their story is finally told, that even a loved one "had no idea . . ."

As friends and family (and even distant strangers when appropriate) we must learn to tell our stories. And equally important we must learn to listen for the Grace and beauty that is present within them. When we fail to do so we hear but one small section of the symphony of a lifetime, who's fullness and glory can only be appreciated when we've heard something that at least points towards the beauty of the whole. (The complete piece, of course, is heard only by the great Composer, who having given us the notes, must surely be curious as to just how we are going to play them.)

So tell your story - both the moments of great joy, and the moments of great sorrow. For it is in just such moments that the movement of the Spirit is most apt to be found - changing the hearts and lives of the one who experiences them . . . And the one who one day is willing to listen.