I know I've written some true-to-life stories in part of a series I wrote on this very blog. But tonight I'm in a place where I find it imperative to share why Story is important.
Honestly right now, in this moment today, I have been planning to drink a beer or two, watch some episodes of Friends, and go to bed really early. But here I am. Because somehow this seized me today. Today it started with a youtube video. A powerful spoken-word performance. It moved to me youtubing a man who I had the pleasure of meeting once. He heads up a few prominent storytelling groups in Chicago. His name is Scott Whitehair (I recommend you youtube him, and if you're in Chicago, please google him and please take the opportunity to see him in person). This man illustrated to me in an incredible way, the power of Story.
For myself as a Christian, this should be an easy concept to grasp. Isn't my entire faith founded on the concept of a Grand Narrative? A Story?
I youtubed Scott and watched his most recent performance. One I hadn't yet seen. As usual, his performance was mesmerizing. For those who don't know about the storytelling community, it is a community that is bustling in Chicago and probably other big cities I don't have as much invested in. I stumbled upon it shortly before I left Chicago. Had I stumbled upon it sooner, I might yet be in Chicago. But my story brought me here.
The storytelling community is a group of people that gather at venues (usually bars), to hear 5-6 people tell 10ish minute true stories from their lives. I had the opportunity and delight to go to three events. I think that in all three I was moved to tears by the tragedy. I also think that in all three I cried because I was laughing so hard. I have never witnessed something so beautiful.
People gathering as strangers and sharing their most vulnerable, most self-deprecating stories. It was the most sincere affirmation of "this is what it is to be human". Everyone connected with each story. Each one of us felt connected with another. Each one of us felt our own humanity and vulnerabilities laid bare to one another. And we were compelled to share in that with one another. I'm sure the alcohol didn't hurt in that realm. But even so, the connections weren't forged. They were real. Even if connections weren't made with another individual there, something in the heart changed just for hearing and witnessing to others' stories.
I could use this to talk about the story of Jesus. I could. And if I write a part 2, that will be the focus, because I believe it is astoundingly important. But this is part 1. My focus here is just this:
Your story is valuable. Your collection of stories is a treasury, useful for connecting to, disarming, loving, suffering with, and consoling others. I believe in creating space to tell stories. I believe in a place to share without expectation, without fear, without ramifications, who you are. I believe in telling the truth when it means risking everything. I believe in sharing who you are, hoping for acceptance, but knowing that whether or not it's extended, people relate. People relating to your story may cause defensiveness, fear, acceptance, denial, rejection, love, sorrow, woundedness, healing, restoration... It has power. If we all share our stories, I think the defensiveness, fear, rejection, and woundedness fall away.
I think what remains is love and its effects. I hope for transformation of communities through Story. Some part of me feels that such transformation is impossible without Story. It requires commitment. It requires a willingness to listen. It requires a willingness to share intimate, vulnerable parts of yourself. It requires a sometimes-naive belief that your story is worth sharing even if no one has seemed to value it before. It requires laying aside your judgements in order to see, truly see, the person standing before you.
I yearn for the church to be such a place. I think by definition, when this happens, it is the Church. Whether it happens in the church or not, among people that follow Jesus or not, I want to be a part of it. I want to foster that community. I want that to be a place of hope and transformation, of healing and acceptance. I want to see this come to pass. I want to be a leader in this movement here.
I don't know what that means. But I want to be in it.
Scott took the time to meet with me one day at a nice Mediterranean restaurant. He shared with me his passion for storytelling. I echoed it and echoed the hopes of starting one someday. I hope this still happens. I feel a growing desire to initiate this, now that I've lived here in this place for almost a year. I want this to come to fruition. Do others believe in this too? Do others value this? Are others willing to join in and be a part?
You don't need a stage to tell your story. You don't need a venue. I encourage this in day-to-day life. I, personally, am more apt to share my stories from a stage. But I want to see this everywhere. For those living here, I hope that this is something you can buy into. Even a group that meets bi-weekly or monthly. I hope this is something you'd be willing to join with me on. I might change my mind tomorrow, but this is something I want to move forward on.Right now, tonight, it feels valuable, urgent, and worth investing the little free time I have left into.
If you live elsewhere, I hope the idea touches you deeply. Whether there is a group or not, I hope some part of you recognizes the value of story.
I hope this blog encourages you to share more openly and listen more intently. That is the kind of love that changes the world.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Friday, August 9, 2013
The Other Me
Somehow I have managed to write this blog without disclosing my name, and I will continue to do so. My first name is Emily. That's probably pretty common. My last name, however, is not. Which I take great pride in. My last name somehow means a lot to me. Weird in this day and age, I know.
In any case, there is one other girl in the U.S. that has my same first and last name. Just one. She's a handful of years younger than me. I think 7 years younger. A few years ago I was in a volunteer program (Mission Year: missionyear.org), which I am almost certain I have mentioned multiple times. During that time, we were encouraged to blog. Ironically back then, I hated blogging and it felt forced and unnatural. Regardless, I posted a few blogs - and by a few I probably mean 3 over the course of one long year that certainly warranted many more.
Anyway, the ONE other girl in the U.S. who shares my name commented on my Mission Year blog. She told me that she was 11, that her name was my name too, and that she was also a Christian. It was cute and sweet. At 11, I totally would have posted the same thing on someone's blog. Or now. Shoot, my name is THAT freaking uncommon. I can't say I have thought a lot about her. But I also can't say I haven't thought about her at all.
A few months ago, I watched this documentary called "Google Me". Self-centered though it (and possibly my own very blog entry) may be, I was hooked. The concept of identity grabs hold of my deepest, pondering self. Yes Shakespeare, what is in a name? And what is in the name you create for yourself? And the name others create for you?
That's another blog for another time (thank goodness - my mental capacities are not quite there right now), but this girl reached out to me. And I haven't forgotten, even as it has been on the backburner of my mind. Of course, there is this realization that there is literally no one in the U.S. with my last name that is not related to me distantly somehorw. I recognize this isn't the case for the Smiths and the Johnsons... But it is so true for me, for us, for my "clan". And being the secret neo-post-modernist that I am, I cling to that.
So I googled myself today. I've done it before. But this time something new came up. Of course I went through the list. Art stuff? Me. Mission Year? Me. Athletic league? Yeah, that other girl that shares my name. Debate team? Me. Youtube videos? Pamela? Who is that?
I am 7 or 8 years older than my "other me". I am familiar with her existence. I know what high school she went to, because Google is not so good at the whole "let's be discrete" thing. Tonight I found out a lot more that I wasn't prepared for. And because I am who I am, caused me distress.
Emily. Pamela. In the other me's life, Pamela is her mother. Emily is 15. Or possibly 16 by now, I'm not a total stalker. Youtube videos came up with Pamela, her mother. Her mother was diagnosed with cancer. Melanoma. Which is something that I see at my work as a medical assistant in a dermatology office. She was giving her testimony at church about God's healing and miraculous touch. This was in March of 2013. Just 5 months ago. How she had asked for prayers and God answered them.
I honestly didn't watch the video. I am skeptical about God's healing, how God interacts with the world, and how He works through us. I think he works through us primarily. I don't believe that miracles don't happen. But I know that there a huge risk in ascribing anything to God. Not to Him. But to us. To what it does to us (again, possibly another blog coming up in the future, dare I be so bold). In any case, I watched 2 minutes. Just long enough for Pamela to introduce herself. Just long enough to hear her say my last name and her last name correctly. And to hear her speak with a Minnesotan accent (because I miss those). She must be one of us, because only one of us says my last name the way she did, and she did it beautifully.
She spoke about her miraculous healing. I didn't watch it. I watch her say her name. I wondered about Emily. I pondered the words "melanoma" and "miracle". And I shuddered when I saw a video linked under youtube's "related videos". It had Pamela's name and church listed. It was the video for her memorial service. A mere 2 months after her supposed miracle.
Me being who I am, I watched a few minutes of the hour-long memorial, and tried to skip around, hoping that her daughter Emily said something. Desperately hoping for some connection other than the name. But she never came up. However, in the memorial service, a song I heard once was played as one of "Pamela's favorite songs". It has emotional ramifications for me too. Not ones of peace, but ones of wrestling with my deepest doubts. And not knowing whether I was winning or losing.
It's not a common song. It's straight up a Christian song. And it's a "charismatic" Christian song. By Misty Edwards. You do not know it if you have not been a part of that circle at one point. But I know. And I saw Misty sing it herself. In person. 2011? 2012? One of those years, in a deep place of doubt and pain.
What does it mean? I don't have a clue. Maybe it means nothing. Maybe it means my family is unilaterally messed up, questioning, confused, and hurt. Maybe it means we are human. Maybe it means we are all connected.
Whatever the case, a 15 year old girl with my name, who has grown up Christian (as I did for many years), lost her mother to a stroke while she was winning the battle of melanoma. Which I am certain feels like a divine scam or trick. How can it feel like anything but that? I felt that and I only watched part of each video after Pamela had passed. It feels cruel, bitter and painful. The one girl that shares my name, has experienced an incredible loss. And for some weird reason, I am connected to her by name, to her mother by song and faith...
Emily is "another me" by name. But I am so struck by how deeply each of us are connected. It kills me that we fight so hard to prove how we are SO damn different from other people. It seems to justify hatred, judgement, and all the things that the Jesus I follow stood so actively against.
The things this Emily and I have in common? We both grew up (more or less) in the same faith. Her mom and I both loved the same rare song. I now work in the field that studies the condition that seemed most life-threatening to her mother. I understand loss to some degree (though a lesser degree than this Emily does). I understand situations that feel like a divine joke for a sadistic deity. I get that.
We probably don't have much actually in common. But I see her as "another me". Maybe it doesn't make sense. Maybe it causes us to justify things for people that we always felt so noble about judging them for. Maybe it means letting things go. Maybe it means holding painful and "arbitrary" things close to our hearts. But... I think that loving God means seeing people as "another me".
Adam was called "ish". Eve was "isha". "One like me, but different". God, how I wish we saw each other that way. How much suffering would be understood, sorrow shared, love actualized, forgiveness actually given, and freedom finally granted. How the Kingdom would finally be lived out.
I want to be a part of that dream. I truly believe that is how Jesus treats us, how God has regarded us, how God bestows love upon us, and how God makes his love visible through us to people who have never known love. Stop trying to see how people "aren't like you" because of A, B, and C. Who are you? Who am I? Why do I feel entitled to that distinction when my God didn't take that distinction upon himself, not seeking equality with God as something to be grasped? God, forgive us for lording ourselves over other that are just life us, but different.
I hope and pray that we would regard others in that way.
1 Corinthians 5:16 - So from now on we regard no one from a worldly point of view. Though we once regarded Christ in this way, we do so no longer.
May we no longer do so for Christ or for the ones He loves. Which, by the way, is everyone.
In any case, there is one other girl in the U.S. that has my same first and last name. Just one. She's a handful of years younger than me. I think 7 years younger. A few years ago I was in a volunteer program (Mission Year: missionyear.org), which I am almost certain I have mentioned multiple times. During that time, we were encouraged to blog. Ironically back then, I hated blogging and it felt forced and unnatural. Regardless, I posted a few blogs - and by a few I probably mean 3 over the course of one long year that certainly warranted many more.
Anyway, the ONE other girl in the U.S. who shares my name commented on my Mission Year blog. She told me that she was 11, that her name was my name too, and that she was also a Christian. It was cute and sweet. At 11, I totally would have posted the same thing on someone's blog. Or now. Shoot, my name is THAT freaking uncommon. I can't say I have thought a lot about her. But I also can't say I haven't thought about her at all.
A few months ago, I watched this documentary called "Google Me". Self-centered though it (and possibly my own very blog entry) may be, I was hooked. The concept of identity grabs hold of my deepest, pondering self. Yes Shakespeare, what is in a name? And what is in the name you create for yourself? And the name others create for you?
That's another blog for another time (thank goodness - my mental capacities are not quite there right now), but this girl reached out to me. And I haven't forgotten, even as it has been on the backburner of my mind. Of course, there is this realization that there is literally no one in the U.S. with my last name that is not related to me distantly somehorw. I recognize this isn't the case for the Smiths and the Johnsons... But it is so true for me, for us, for my "clan". And being the secret neo-post-modernist that I am, I cling to that.
So I googled myself today. I've done it before. But this time something new came up. Of course I went through the list. Art stuff? Me. Mission Year? Me. Athletic league? Yeah, that other girl that shares my name. Debate team? Me. Youtube videos? Pamela? Who is that?
I am 7 or 8 years older than my "other me". I am familiar with her existence. I know what high school she went to, because Google is not so good at the whole "let's be discrete" thing. Tonight I found out a lot more that I wasn't prepared for. And because I am who I am, caused me distress.
Emily. Pamela. In the other me's life, Pamela is her mother. Emily is 15. Or possibly 16 by now, I'm not a total stalker. Youtube videos came up with Pamela, her mother. Her mother was diagnosed with cancer. Melanoma. Which is something that I see at my work as a medical assistant in a dermatology office. She was giving her testimony at church about God's healing and miraculous touch. This was in March of 2013. Just 5 months ago. How she had asked for prayers and God answered them.
I honestly didn't watch the video. I am skeptical about God's healing, how God interacts with the world, and how He works through us. I think he works through us primarily. I don't believe that miracles don't happen. But I know that there a huge risk in ascribing anything to God. Not to Him. But to us. To what it does to us (again, possibly another blog coming up in the future, dare I be so bold). In any case, I watched 2 minutes. Just long enough for Pamela to introduce herself. Just long enough to hear her say my last name and her last name correctly. And to hear her speak with a Minnesotan accent (because I miss those). She must be one of us, because only one of us says my last name the way she did, and she did it beautifully.
She spoke about her miraculous healing. I didn't watch it. I watch her say her name. I wondered about Emily. I pondered the words "melanoma" and "miracle". And I shuddered when I saw a video linked under youtube's "related videos". It had Pamela's name and church listed. It was the video for her memorial service. A mere 2 months after her supposed miracle.
Me being who I am, I watched a few minutes of the hour-long memorial, and tried to skip around, hoping that her daughter Emily said something. Desperately hoping for some connection other than the name. But she never came up. However, in the memorial service, a song I heard once was played as one of "Pamela's favorite songs". It has emotional ramifications for me too. Not ones of peace, but ones of wrestling with my deepest doubts. And not knowing whether I was winning or losing.
It's not a common song. It's straight up a Christian song. And it's a "charismatic" Christian song. By Misty Edwards. You do not know it if you have not been a part of that circle at one point. But I know. And I saw Misty sing it herself. In person. 2011? 2012? One of those years, in a deep place of doubt and pain.
What does it mean? I don't have a clue. Maybe it means nothing. Maybe it means my family is unilaterally messed up, questioning, confused, and hurt. Maybe it means we are human. Maybe it means we are all connected.
Whatever the case, a 15 year old girl with my name, who has grown up Christian (as I did for many years), lost her mother to a stroke while she was winning the battle of melanoma. Which I am certain feels like a divine scam or trick. How can it feel like anything but that? I felt that and I only watched part of each video after Pamela had passed. It feels cruel, bitter and painful. The one girl that shares my name, has experienced an incredible loss. And for some weird reason, I am connected to her by name, to her mother by song and faith...
Emily is "another me" by name. But I am so struck by how deeply each of us are connected. It kills me that we fight so hard to prove how we are SO damn different from other people. It seems to justify hatred, judgement, and all the things that the Jesus I follow stood so actively against.
The things this Emily and I have in common? We both grew up (more or less) in the same faith. Her mom and I both loved the same rare song. I now work in the field that studies the condition that seemed most life-threatening to her mother. I understand loss to some degree (though a lesser degree than this Emily does). I understand situations that feel like a divine joke for a sadistic deity. I get that.
We probably don't have much actually in common. But I see her as "another me". Maybe it doesn't make sense. Maybe it causes us to justify things for people that we always felt so noble about judging them for. Maybe it means letting things go. Maybe it means holding painful and "arbitrary" things close to our hearts. But... I think that loving God means seeing people as "another me".
Adam was called "ish". Eve was "isha". "One like me, but different". God, how I wish we saw each other that way. How much suffering would be understood, sorrow shared, love actualized, forgiveness actually given, and freedom finally granted. How the Kingdom would finally be lived out.
I want to be a part of that dream. I truly believe that is how Jesus treats us, how God has regarded us, how God bestows love upon us, and how God makes his love visible through us to people who have never known love. Stop trying to see how people "aren't like you" because of A, B, and C. Who are you? Who am I? Why do I feel entitled to that distinction when my God didn't take that distinction upon himself, not seeking equality with God as something to be grasped? God, forgive us for lording ourselves over other that are just life us, but different.
I hope and pray that we would regard others in that way.
1 Corinthians 5:16 - So from now on we regard no one from a worldly point of view. Though we once regarded Christ in this way, we do so no longer.
May we no longer do so for Christ or for the ones He loves. Which, by the way, is everyone.
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