Tell Me Your Story

I woke up yesterday morning with two things on my

mind--one that was the weirdest dream I've ever had; (I dreamed about attempting to dye a piece of my hair blue and about toothpaste); and two I've got to write that blog I don't want to write but I've promised I'll get written...

I started my morning routine--dogs out, coffee made, dogs in, begin order of devotional reading (yes there is a specific order in which everything must be done--but that's a whole other issue). As I read the second devotional book I froze and tears sprang to my eyes; I immediately thought about the coffee I'd had the day before with a dear friend who has a pink stripe in her hair which I covet--

and she also happens to be the cousin of the person I'd promised about the blog. I'm not sure how the dream connects other than the stripe in her hair and the continual blue stripe of toothpaste in my sink (I hate toothpaste caps that won't close all the way and it just oozes everywhere), and I'm not going to write that other blog, but finally after six weeks I had to write....

We'd met for coffee and started catching up.  As we settled into the comfortable chairs she looked me straight in the eyes and said, "I've heard the rumors, but I want to hear it from you.  Tell me the story." And I did. The whole long story--every detail, sometimes having to backtrack, sometimes repeating myself, but it all came tumbling out. She sat there and listened; she listened with her whole self--heart, mind and body; and she received my story.  She received my story; she accepted my story, but she didn't try to co-opt my story. She just let it be what it was.

She received my story which is different than hearing my story--she wasn't listening so that she could be the one in the know; she wasn't listening so that she could pass on the latest gossip or so that she could fix something; she wasn't just listening to the words--she was receiving part of me. She received my story with no judgement; she received my story with compassion; she received my story allowing me space and grace and dignity; and then she said, "Thank you for telling me." And suddenly I was a little lighter, a little freer. It was a holy moment.

What I read yesterday morning was from Mark Nepo's The Book of Awakening. He writes, "The line between living and watching is very thin. A moment's rest or pause for reflection can spread into a thickness of hesitation, and the next thing we know, reaching out or saying something or picking up the phone or stopping in unannounced is difficult, as if there is suddenly some huge wall to climb just to be heard. This is how we isolate ourselves, digging moments of healthy solitude into holes in the yard, and of course, the dirt we dig and pile up becomes a small mountain that separates us from everyone we love." (p. 117-118)

As I sat in my chair I thought about how easy it has been to continue to dig that hole--it has been easy to tell myself, "I've just accepted a new call so of course I'm busy" and "I need time for solitude and reflection so I can be a better priest" and I have closed off. My friend got her hands dirty; she pushed those piles of dirt away and offered me her hand to begin to climb out of that hole and over the mountain with the simple but life giving words, "Tell me your story."