Story #9

That’s really my final story. At least that’s what my sister says. I tend to tell the same tales over and over again so each one of them is numbered. It’s hereditary because my Dad has the same unique talent.

Tonight I retold my tales of a trip to New Orleans with my family for a half-marathon event. My new audience loved the depictions of the area, race, and the people especially my wonderfully colorful mom and aunt. If anybody could make a trip/story it would these two. As I reflected on my story-telling moment, I realized that my life as 1 of 2 kids in Wyoming is so different and maybe a little dryer than that of 5 kids in the South with the marvelous personalities of my relatives. Or maybe it’s just that the grass is an unknown green down south compared to my yellow, crispy grass of Casper, America.

Really, no one could claim special moments like sledding down the stairs in a purple silk “magic” blanket or going to the rodeo with my little brother with matching red boots. No doubt there were few people with popcorn wallpaper or parents in theatre and therefore easy access to the costume room and scene shop.

As I babysit kids or work with them at church, I wonder what stories they’re creating. While my friend tries to navigate finding a new apartment and take the bus and go to school, her kids are going to have special stories of America and Africa. My two buddies at church see the world from 3 feet above ground right now- there’s a perspective. And as they grow up with their adoptive parents, they will have special stories of abundant love and grace.

I’m grateful for my stories, numbered as they may be. And each day I realize more and more how important each person’s story is to them and for the good of the community. So even if it’s for the 5th time, I want to hear your Story #9.