Stories that make us who we are...

“Arise, cry out in the night,
as the watches of the night begin;
pour out your heart like water
in the presence of the Lord.
Lift up your hands to him
for the lives of your children.”
-Lamentations 2:19

This week has been beautiful.

I’m not just talking about the weather, although that’s a part of it. I feel fresh and hopeful and energized, like I could frolic for hours through the few leaves that have touched the Texas ground (Colorado had so many of so many different colors it was unbelievably gorgeous).

But it’s only Wednesday, and the week already has been beautiful.

I don’t say that about many weeks, maybe because I’m a realist (a pessimist, my husband calls it) by nature. But we just got back from a successful tour through Colorado with Progeny (successful not because we made a whole bunch of money, but because we got nine World Vision kids sponsored—changed nine children’s lives on the other side of the world). By Saturday evening, I had all the laundry done, the clothes folded and put away, the house completely clean, groceries in the fridge, a balanced checkbook and had spent some quality time with my family, just us. It was wonderfully beautiful.

On Sunday, Ben, Jadon and I went to Riverside, our church home. We hadn’t been there in a while because of our October travels (fifth anniversary trip to Florida and then the Colorado tour), so we had to catch up with many of our friends (Jadon did this in the nursery, showing off how he can now do somersaults over the sides of playpens). I heard so much baby news I wanted to cry for the joy that bubbled up inside…baby news from couples that have been trying for years to start a family and are living their dream now. It was…overwhelming.

I sat in church, trying hard to listen to my pastor, Scott Heare. It was so hard to concentrate with all the excitement and surprise and wonder churning from my heart to my toes. But Scott still managed to make me cry, even though I blinked the tears away before anybody else could see.

He talked about stories—stories that have made us who we are, stories that people have told over us, the few (hopefully few) stories that we are better off forgetting. He told us about how stories kept his grandfather, who had died when Scott was young, alive in his family for many years. He told us how his family would tell their stories and how later, when the stories had become a part of who he was, they would say, “You’re so much like your grandfather.” He told us how that burrowed into the person he became.

So this got me thinking about the stories that have been told about me and my life and what they have made me believe about who I am. Some might call me creatively efficient. I keep the checkbook balanced for my family, even though we make significantly less than the total of our bills every month. I manage my time like a typical person with OCD to get the most accomplished in the hours I have.

I’ve accomplished things that some might call great. Valedictorian is buried in there somewhere. Summa cum laude is stamped on my college degree. Writing awards are packed in a box in my garage, along with the hundreds of newspapers and magazines in which my stories have been published.

I’ve had some wonderful experiences. Five years ago, I married a man I still love. We bought our first house in May 2006. We welcomed our first child in November of that same year.

But none of that means a thing, not right now. I thought about this for a long time. And (as much as I don’t like it) when I thought about my stories, the only ones I could really remember—really, really remember—were the ones my dad told. The dad who left my family when I was 11, the dad who had spotty contact during my adolescent and early adult years (and even now), the dad I loved then and still love now.

It was the first summer I had seen him after my parents divorced, after my sister and brother and I learned that the woman he was living with he’d been living with for years and the children she had were his children, born while he was still married to our mom. I remember so clearly the visit that summer, the summer between my fifth and sixth grade year. I remember hoping, praying that this time I would be good enough for him. But I disappointed him that summer.

It happened a few days after my brother and sister and I arrived at the two-story house in Ohio, where we were all staying. I wanted to call my mom, to let her know we had gotten to Ohio safely, and for some reason (I remember we were driving somewhere else…maybe my grandma’s), I wasn’t able to. I don’t remember why. It’s not important to the story anyway. But I remember crying because I was so afraid that she would be worried. It was our first summer away from her, and we were all she had. I knew she would be worried. My dad turned around to me, glared at me from the front seat, and said, “You’re just like your mother. Sniveling over every little thing.”

Looking back, his words, “You’re just like your mother,” were not bad in and of themselves. My mom, I believe, is one of the most beautiful, wonderful, intelligent, loving and caring women I know. I hope I can be like her someday. But the way my dad said it that day, the meaning that crept into my consciousness even then, cut something deep inside. He didn’t like my mother, and he didn’t like me, either.

I’ve spent my lifetime trying to prove I was good enough to like.

That same summer, Dad and Shelly (my stepmom) took us shopping. Dad had agreed to buy our school clothes because Mom couldn’t afford it on her school librarian’s salary. I remember stepping out of the dressing room to look in one of the big mirrors, to make sure the shorts I had on fit right. Dad said, “I thought she would have lost all her baby fat by now,” to my stepmom. Maybe he didn’t intend me to hear him, but I did.

I stopped eating lunch my sixth grade year. Slowly I cut other meals out until I went off to college and was away from the concern that burned in my mom’s eyes. Then I let myself have one smoothie a day and nothing else. I made excuses when my mom came to visit once a month or so. The Texas State marching band was hard work, and I couldn’t keep the weight on because of it. She knew I wasn’t telling the truth, but there was nothing she could do. I needed to be thin.

It’s been a lifetime struggle. I’ve never seen myself clearly when I look in a mirror. Ben used to always tell me that. When he and I first started dating, I worked as editor in chief of the Texas State newspaper. Because I was in my office so much and still had trouble eating three meals a day then, Ben stuck a note on my computer that said “skinny = beautiful” with a line through the equal sign. I looked at it every day, but I couldn’t ever believe it. If I’m honest, I still don’t believe it today. Because I can’t forget that story.

So, as I was thinking about all of this, I realized that I have let the bad stories, the stories that made me something, someone, I didn’t want to be, overshadow the good stories, the stories that could have made me something better. The good stories are just a faint whisper among the shouts of condemnation and destruction that I hear when I really think about all of this.

I don’t want to erase or forget those bad stories because they are part of my bigger story. But I want to use them to build good stories, to help me remember how good other stories that have been told over my life are—because I know there have been good stories. I can barely remember my mom saying, “Your grandpa was always good with money. You must have gotten that from him” and my Memaw writing in a graduation card, “I know you’ll do well because you’re you,” and my Nana saying, “Your Grandad’n used to work at a newspaper. He was really good at writing, just like you. You would make him proud.” I want to remember those stories every day. I want them to make me someone better than I am.

The verse I wrote above came to me as I was looking at a running group’s Web site today. I thought about how important it is that we tell stories over our children that will help make them the men and women God intended them to be.

Jadon will turn 2 on Nov. 19. So hard to believe. We will welcome baby number 2 in April. I’ve been—Ben and I have been—given a wonderful privilege but also a great responsibility.

Oh, God, may we be the kind of storytellers that make our kids believe they can be beautiful, brilliant, life-changing people…because I know—and believe—they can be.