A Story Not About Us

We all want our lives to tell a good story. We all want our story to be remembered. So we post pictures of ourselves on Facebook and Instagram in an effort to convince others (and maybe ourselves) that our story is worth watching. We post about our accomplishments, our adventures, the places we have seen and the things we have done. We post pictures of the mundane and we post pictures that make things look better than they are. We add comments that add drama to our pictures and we post pictures that add flair to our comments. We promote ourselves and we promote our story.

But almost always, in our self absorbed culture, the story is only about ourselves. It is my story, the story about me, that I want to be significant. I want me to be significant. So we promote and embellish our story in hopes that it will be good enough that others will pay attention, enough attention so that we will not be forgotten. And in case you might forget I will do it all again tomorrow.

But there is a better story. It is a story that includes us, but is not about us. We are included in the story, but we are not the story. It is a story about transformation, our transformation. But within the story of us, the attention is drawn to one greater than us. It is a story filled with drama that needs no embellishment. It is a story that involves us, and is better with us, but it does not need us.

In the end, our story should not be one that reflects our self absorption, but rather it should show the beauty of devotion to Christ. It should be our goal that when others see our story, they see beyond us and see Jesus Christ. They should see qualities that inspire them to be, not like us, but like Christ. Our story should be a story of redemption that compels others to respond to the Redeemer.

Too often the story I try to tell is all about me. I want others to know of my accomplishments, my determination, my sacrifice, my intelligence, my talents and, ironically, even my humility. I want others to take notice of me, instead of the one who holds my life in his hands; the one who has made every breath I take possible. I want my life to tell a good story, but more and more I am coming to understand that it should be a story about God’s grace and mercy, about the way He transforms people, of which I am only one of many. Although I show it far too seldom I really want my story to bring glory to God and encourage others to bring glory to Him as well. I want to have a heart that doesn’t care if my name is forgotten as long as the incredible gift that God has given each of us is remembered, and in the end I can hear, “well done, good and faithful servant.”

It is all well and good to hope that our lives tell a good story, but only if our story brings glory to our Creator and our Savior. Our lives can tell a good story without the story being about us.

Wearing Others' Shoes

I was working in the yard the other day when I heard some loud shrieks and sounds of panic coming form the neighbors. I'm not sure exactly what happened, but it seemed to involve a child flailing and screaming after encountering some yellowjackets. I looked and saw the child desperately trying to escape while the parents were trying their best to stay calm and reassure the terrorized child. My initial reaction was to wonder why there was such a commotion, but I had a flashback to similar instances in my own family. I have vivd memories of my own child reacting with the same irrational fear and being frustrated at my inability to quiet the momentary trama. I like logical, rational explanations, but I learned (and relearned often) that a child's fear is impervious to sound reasoning, as well as to all the great parenting that might have come before.

To my own shame I must admit that I am often quick to judge. Had the situation been a bit different I might have wondered to myself why my neighbors didn't do a better job of controlling their child and internally I might have gotten a bit grumpy that my beautiful morning in the yard had been interrupted by such a outburst. But having shared their experience, my annoyance was tempered. Instead of judgement, I immediately felt a bit of compassion (not one of my spiritual gifts), because I understood. The parents actually handled everything quite well and order was restored relatively quickly, probably better than I ever did with my own child. I was reminded, though, how easily I tend to rush to condemn others when I don't understand their situation. My most brutal judgements are most often filled with ignorance and my greatest mercy comes from common understanding.

I can't experience everything that everyone else experiences. As helpful as it would be, I can't "walk a mile" in everyone else's shoes. But I was reminded that I can be slower to judge and quicker to seek clarification and understanding. I can assume the best before believing the worst. It is how I want everyone else to treat me, after-all. There are occasions when I need someone to be brutally honest with me, maybe even tell me when I am doing something wrong, but more often I need someone to be considerate and empathetic. More often I hope to find someone who sees my struggles and failings through a similar lens and common experience. If that is what I want from others, than I should expect it from myself as well.