Swapping Stories

Give what you’ve got

Trade ya.

It was a hard week. A hard few weeks. Months. Not the first time in my life that things weren’t going as well as I’d hoped. And, turns out, it would be far from the last. Life can get pretty rough.

I didn’t really have much to complain about, honestly. Kara and I were good. Our health was good. We were maybe not as wealthy as I might have wanted, but we got by. We even lived in a place, at that time, that was just a short walk to shops and restaurants. It was a four-minute walk from my front door to Barnes & Noble. These were good times.

But on this day, something had me. Nagged me. I can’t even say what it was. I don’t remember. I bet I could go scouring journal entries and find it. But I’m going to guess it was just down to not quite being who and what and where I wanted to be. I wasn’t yet experiencing the success I thought I should be, at that time.

One thing I was doing, though, was taking walks. And lots of them.

Next door to our apartment was a small park with a pond. Circling that was a walking path. Nothing fancy. No shade cover, because all the trees were just a few years freshly planted. But it was still pleasant, if you took it at the right time of year, at the right time of day. In the cool of the morning or evening, at the season when you wouldn’t be cooked alive by the Texas sun or boiled in your clothes by the humidity.

On this day, I was struggling. I was pressing up against the wall of who I wanted to be, and finding it to be immovable. A wall I couldn’t breach. And my heart was heavy, damn near broken.

So I walked. And, as I often do, I prayed.

Eventually, I came to a park bench overlooking the water. Here they’d planted a weeping willow. And you could tell, someday this was going to be a nice, shaded spot. For now, it was overcast enough to keep the sun from scorching me. The humidity was low enough to keep me from needing a shower. And the breeze was light and cool, and rippling the surface of the water. Ducks swam. Small birds darted and chirped. People in the distance walked dogs or each other, chatting and laughing. Kids played in the open field. Cars drove past on the distant road.

It was peaceful.

My sprit wasn’t.

I don’t know what sparked it, what nudged me and encouraged me to do it. But sitting there, I was suddenly inspired to do something I’d never done before.

I started telling God a story.

Now, I remember some sketchy details of this story. But not the whole of it. I know enough, though. I know what it was.

It was a gift.

“This story is for you alone, Father,” I said. And I meant it.

For the next hour or so I sat on that bench, I felt that breeze, I felt the occasional warm sunbeam breaking through the clouds. I watched the ducks and the distant children playing, and the people walking dogs and each other.

And I told God a story.

And when it was done, I felt relieved. Lighter. Unburdened.

No one will ever know that story. Even I don’t remember it, exactly. But God has it. He’s kept it. And, I think and believe, he loved it.

This morning I’m feeling burdened, heavy, even a bit sad. Anxious. Things are not as I want them to be. I am not who I wanted or intended to be. I do not yet have the success I thought I would have, at the age of 52. I’m struggling in ways I thought I was past for good.

Every morning, after I finish my little list of responsibilities—take the dog out, unload the dishwasher, make the coffee—I take a walk. Where we live now has much nicer walking paths and trails. There’s much more to see and experience. But ultimately, it’s similar. More or less the same.

I sat on a bench overlooking the water. I watched the ducks and the people walking their dogs. The kids aren’t out yet. But the breeze is there. The sway of trees in the distance. The warm sunlight breaking through the overcast skies.

Today is Good Friday. The day that celebrates the death and sacrifice of Jesus. The day that, according to my faith, marks the first steps in his conquering of death, in the washing clean of all of our sins. Our salvation.

It’s the first time that it’s hit me—God wrote a story for me, too.

And things aren’t what I wanted or hoped for them to be. Not yet. But there is, as always, a happy ending to the story.

And for that, I can be, and I am, grateful.

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A NOTE AT THE END

I know that a lot of people are struggling right now. I think that’s always true. It’s the kind of statement we can always make, and it will always be true.

I have not always been a very empathetic person. But I have become more so as I’ve gotten older, gotten more experience. I have a growing compulsion to help people in any way I can. Sometimes, as now, the way I can help is limited. But then, God gave me a skill and a talent that I think is meant to be that help.

I told God a story because that was what I had to offer. And God has multiplied that, like loaves, like fish, to feed multitudes. So, I tell stories. More stories. Because it’s what I can give. It’s how I can help, in the best way I know how. It’s the one thing I can do when everything else is falling to pieces, and I have nothing else to give.

That, I think, is a lesson. It’s what Christ did for you. Whatever your particular spiritual persuasion, Christ did that for you, anyway and even though. He gave all he had to give.

God bless you, on this Easter. I pray for you and those you love, that you will receive all you need but more.

“Hey God, it’s me. I’ve got another good one for you.”