Tell Me a Story!!

When my kids were little they would often ask my husband and me to tell them stories about when we were young. Most of the time I deferred the story telling to my husband because I could not think of stories that would be age appropriate for my kids or that were pleasant. I wanted to be able to share my life experiences with them, but there were so many painful memories that I rarely could find a happy one to share. To be honest, I had learned how to live a day and forget it as a means of coping with the painful, unresolved memories that lingered and that quite frankly were continually added to my internal memory bank.

I had not been told many stories about my parents' childhoods or about my extended family. Many of the things I had been told did not bare repeating to young children. I often felt disconnected from just about everything - family, my sense of self, and any kind of legacy that was worthy of knowing or celebrating. I was curious and would ask questions as I was growing up, but I rarely received any information about where our family had come from or how we became who we are today. The biggest reason this was true was because my mom truly did not know very much about her family history, and my dad simply did not want to remember or ever talk about what he experienced.

I did not know then what I know now. I did not know that my dad's story was filled with death, grief, loss, poverty, and a strong sense of having to survive. I did not know that my mom's life was full of secrets and untold stories that even she did not know until recently. These untold stories were the very things that would have helped me to understand them differently had I known. Had they been given the chance to talk with the adults in their lives about the scary, painful, often dangerous circumstances in their lives, they may have been able to navigate things differently into their adult years and into the life they attempted to create with each other.

What I know now is that each of them held some of the darkest, most painful experiences anyone can survive, and they had no one to comfort them or provide them with a sense of security that could calm their broken hearts. They learned how to perform daily tasks and navigate through meeting basic needs, but they did not have the capacity to offer comfort or support to others due to the broken parts of their hearts that had never been mended.

Today I understand so much differently why I did not have fun, enjoyable stories to share with my kids. It was not because we never experienced fun times together or that we did not have good memories. It is because those times were over shadowed by the pain and brokenness that permeated through every single day, that was never acknowledged and was unable to be left behind. Traumatic experiences change us emotionally, but more importantly, they change us neurologically, physically, and relationally. The emotional changes are merely symptoms of the actual issue. We tend to want to focus on the emotions, behaviors, and attitudes that are undesirable, but what is really needed is space to tell the stories, be heard, validated that they were impacting and real, and be comforted.

As my kids got older, I began to share more with them. I told them about some of the good memories and I shared the hard ones. I have continued to ask questions, seek answers. This year I had the incredible privilege to hear some stories from my mom that she had never shared before that shed so much light on her childhood. Then one day, she brought over an old suitcase filled with old letters and cards that she had saved through the years. We read every one of them. In this time together, we discovered or rediscovered pieces of our stories that, had they not been saved, may have been forgotten... It was a time that held both laughter and tears as these precious letters hold both joys and sorrows from years gone by. Through my mom's courage to share about her life and engaging in research on a family history website, I have learned so much more about my family history on both sides of the family. What has been incredibly sweet is that I am learning that there are many stories of resiliency, survival, and perseverance. Some of my oldest ancestors were incredibly courageous and adventurous. Many endured much tragedy. All have made mistakes and longed for the same things I have - to be known, accepted, and loved.

Stories have power. Stories help us to add pieces of the puzzle to create a clearer picture. Stories help us to recognize that while there may be missing pieces, or pieces that

have been damaged and no longer fit properly, you can still see the beauty of the whole picture. Nothing and no one is perfect. Perfection is rarely as beautiful as things that have flaws. The flaws add character, interest, and room for others to recognize or acknowledge their own flaws. Stories reveal the broken, wounded parts and allow others to see the restoration and redemption that can ultimately come through perseverance, faith, and hope.