Hope, courage and the stories we tell

When you think about it, everything we know comes in the form of a story with a beginning and end; from the stories told by our parents at bedtime, to the stories communicated to us by newsreaders everyday. Stories are like glue, they bring us together across class and culture and give coherence to our many, and sometimes confusing, experiences. When I go to the cinema or theatre I can know that, for a few hours a separate world exists where predictable patterns can be relied on. There is a way of knowing how things will work out in the end.

Perhaps that’s why stories hold such appeal? They can inform us about how the world works, and how we’re meant to feel about the world. They can give a sense of security because, paradoxically, they exist apart from us. And though we are welcomed in as observers, we are not responsible for the story’s ultimate outcome because the protagonist’s success or failure doesn’t rest on our shoulders.

I also think we’re drawn to stories because we spend a large part of our lives in uncertainty. We’ve been reminded, by birthdays, that moments race by like bullet trains, the years fly past, and we can’t control them at all. It seems like only yesterday I was in college about to turn 17. Soon I would be an independent woman, have a successful career, get married and have children. Then I’d comb my daughters hair thinking soon I wouldn’t be able to do this anymore knowing that the little ponytail would inevitably have to give way to hair straighteners and tousled locks. I tried to plan the outcome of my future so much so that there was no room for surprises. I think we all do at some point in our lives. Yet still there is no absolute guarantee that we can know how things turn out in the end. Institutions crumble, savings evaporate and careers come to an end.

That’s why I am encouraged when I hear people be honest about life, without glossing over the gloomier realities. I need to hear the good, the bad, and the ugly, because then I discover I am not alone. Most films have happy endings, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but when they say so little about the reality of life, they inadvertently suggest that things are better than they actually are. The optimism that isn’t necessarily rooted in reality, but in the wishful thinking of fantasy and make-believe, can be deceptively misleading.

Our highlights, struggles, prayers, silences, laughter, weeping and praising are part and parcel of walking a path that has quick turns and hidden corners. Life is unpredictable. It throws its curveballs and not every story has a typical happy ending. 

Real life stories are living, organic things like clouds forming or shifting tides. They do not always do the things we want them to, or have a beginning and an end.

I remember a conversation I had with a Rwandan man about the genocide in the 1990s. It was hard to know what to say to someone who had suffered such loss. His first instinct was that the perpetrators should suffer the same fate that they had inflicted on his family. He said that he thought forgiveness was a lovely idea until he was faced with forgiving the unforgivable. Yet still somehow in his extreme loss, and profound confusion as to why God had allowed such a thing to happen, he was able to forgive them. This didn’t mean that the pain didn’t turn up from time to time. It didn’t mean that he felt immune to someone sparking a bad memory. It meant that he had entered into the ongoing process that forgiveness sometimes is.

Stories like these carry something with them that enriches my own life experience. As a Christian, I draw hope from people like the Rwandan man, who have learned how God can meet them in the midst of their struggles, and bring hope is seemingly hopeless situations. And I am inspired by women, like the Big Sistahs, who have had the courage to use their difficult pasts to help others out of poverty. I can hardly compare myself to these people, but I see an authenticity in them that stirs me beyond powerful rhetoric.

Their hope and courage is a reminder that there’s a Grand Narrative that doesn’t rest on my shoulders, and which doesn’t begin and end with my ability to keep things together. Rather it invites me up into it to take part. It invites us all.

So...

I believe that everybody has a story to tell. A story that’s perhaps waiting in the back of your mind to see the light of day. You never know what could happen! True life stories have the power to inspire people around us. They can help children beyond the theory of what is taught in schools. If you haven’t yet figured out what your story is, I hope you will very soon.