The Power of Story

The concept of story has been rattling around in my head for several months now. More and more I am becoming convicted that I need to devote time to learning and listening to other’s stories. I have seen first hand how listening to one’s story can give that individual worth and dignity and value, a feeling of importance, knowing that they matter, while at the same time have it begin to change my natural tendencies of summing people up with a glance and assuming that I know why they are how they are.

Stories begin to make crisis and disasters personal. The plight of the suffering and hurting is overwhelming and the needs at times are deafening to the point that one becomes paralyzed in how to help. But, when you meet someone who is suffering, when you listen to their story…the hurt and pain for you begins to have a face and a name. You humanize once again the tragedies that surround us.

I met Tyrone last December at a soup kitchen in New York. He had just finished his fourth plate of food when I sat down to talk with him. In a 45 min. conversation I found out about his childhood, going back and forth between foster homes. I learned that he left home at 16 and traveled to Indiana to work for the oil refineries. I discovered that he used to make a living driving a truck but lost his job due to a misunderstanding and was now without his trucking license, without a job, and without a home. Tyrone and I laughed together and joked around. Something that I have always known logically was made real to me that day: No one wakes up and decides to be homeless. No one aspires to homelessness and no one deserves to be homeless. My life has been very different from Tyrone’s, I wonder if I would have the strength to smile and laugh as he did if the roles would have been reversed.

In April I met a man named Ken down in New Orleans. He lost everything to Katrina. His family had all passed away prior to the storm and he literally had nothing. We met him when our group went to gut a few homes in his neighborhood. He was staying in a FEMA trailer with no water and no electricity. He still owned the family home but it was completely gutted and not livable. When I met him there was a shyness about him and tears in his eyes. He told us what had happened and we prayed. I gave him my bible and while it was a nice gesture and we could have left feeling okay about ourselves, it wasn’t enough…Ken was still in tears, still broken. My job that day was to pray through the neighborhood with some students. So we decided to invite Ken to come along and tell us all he knew about the neighborhood that he grew up in all his life. While he was reluctant at first, he was quickly persuaded and in the next 2 hours I saw transformation take place in the life of Ken. By the end of our time together he was telling jokes and funny stories. He was interacting with the students and smiling. We gave him some candy and water as Easter gifts and set up an Easter Egg Hunt strategy for him. We prayed again as a large group and the students began to load the bus. Ken pulled me aside before we left and said that we were the first people that had ever prayed for him and taken the time to listen to his story. He said that for the first time in over a year, he knew that there was hope.

The power of story for me lies in the fact that when we understand people’s stories we can better understand how to respond. I think so often in our Christian circles we are quick to offer a prayer and a verse and then go on our way…and while there is nothing wrong with either, at times I wonder if it is best. Jesus was a master at knowing how to respond. To the leper He offered touch and with that touch communicated more worth and acceptance than mere words ever could. To the widow at Nain, He offered his tears. To the crowd of 5000 He offered food. To the lame man at the Pool of Bethsaida He offered strong questions of challenge... He listened first to their need and responded appropriately.

I leave for Uganda in 3 days to attempt to train my heart to listen first to stories. I go with a desire to love and serve people well. I am going to hold babies and play hopscotch with children and my expectation is that I will meet Jesus there. I expect to meet him in the villages and walking along the road. My hope is that I will be different as a result of my time in Uganda. My prayer is that I would be more compassionate and more loving. I hope to learn better how to serve others well. I hope to rediscover my first love and take advantage of being truly dependent on Him again. I hope to laugh a lot. I hope to have incredible stories. I hope to cry and to feel. I hope to be changed.