A Story about Stories
You know when you were a kid and everything made perfect sense? You would grow up and be a waitress/ballerina and get married and have kids and always love Jesus and have a pretty house, four horses and a library full of books. (like the one in Beauty & the Beast.) You would be beautiful like your mom and smart just like your big brother and your dad would always be the funniest person you knew. Your first dog would live forever, as would your grandparents and best friends would still be next door. (It all sounds a bit complicated, but believe me, total cake to a six year old)
At some point in time, little holes start to peirce through the lining. At first it's not a big deal. I mean, how many people are actually cut out to be a ballerina? But then bigger tears start to appear. A friend moves away, or worse, betrays/ditches you for a guy. You realize that pets and family pass and that they may not be around for key moments in the future. You start to like things you swore to always despise, such as coffee and mangos and naps, and suddenly, you aren't even friends with anyone from high school, let alone married to your crush from youth group.
You have questions about faith and rules and grace and justice. Big, hard messy questions. And you're still single while all of your current friends are married and having children. You don't have that house you assumed was just a given, and maybe, waitressing isn't such a far off career choice. What I'm saying is, life is a lot messier than you ever assumed it would be. Convention and normality are ridiculous words equal to fairy tales and Prince Charming.
But what life isn't, is predictable.
You have questions about faith and rules and grace and justice. Big, hard messy questions. And you're still single while all of your current friends are married and having children. You don't have that house you assumed was just a given, and maybe, waitressing isn't such a far off career choice. What I'm saying is, life is a lot messier than you ever assumed it would be. Convention and normality are ridiculous words equal to fairy tales and Prince Charming.
But what life isn't, is predictable.
And yes, sometimes, you wish you could slip into that six year old's dream of the future, where things were easy and fun all the time. Where tree forts and bunk-bed tents ruled and naptimes were for babies. But as time passes and new hurts and old wounds persist, while you battle with your heart and selfishly give God ultimatums, you are fully aware that this is the story you are supposed to have.
Maybe it's not what you would have chosen if given the chance, but what if The Fellowship hadn't journeyed with Frodo? Or if Matthew and Marilla hadn't taken Anne Shirely in? What if Katniss hadn't volunteered for Prim and Elizabeth Bennet hadn't admitted her pride? If Anne Sullivan had given up on Helen Keller, or if C. S. Lewis hadn't held strong to what he believed? What if Anne Frank hadn't documented her life for us to treasure and learn by? If Esther had chose the easy way out and hadn't the courage to save her people?
Those tales belonged to the characters, whether fictional or true, and all of them have made an impact on lives. Who are we to deny our stories?
Maybe it's not what you would have chosen if given the chance, but what if The Fellowship hadn't journeyed with Frodo? Or if Matthew and Marilla hadn't taken Anne Shirely in? What if Katniss hadn't volunteered for Prim and Elizabeth Bennet hadn't admitted her pride? If Anne Sullivan had given up on Helen Keller, or if C. S. Lewis hadn't held strong to what he believed? What if Anne Frank hadn't documented her life for us to treasure and learn by? If Esther had chose the easy way out and hadn't the courage to save her people?
Those tales belonged to the characters, whether fictional or true, and all of them have made an impact on lives. Who are we to deny our stories?
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