“My assumption is that the story of any one of us is in some measure the story of us all.” — Frederick Buechner
Timon Studier via Unsplash
I sat on the black vinyl bench in the waiting area of the bar and grill where I was meeting a friend. I was a tad early; she was a tad late. I noticed the stroller, folded and parked near the end of the bench opposite me. Technically, the restaurant is in the mall, so the stroller wasn’t completely out of place. I thought little of it until its owners emerged from the dining area to claim it.
A young girl held a baby, maybe six or eight months old, and she handed him off to her friend, while she and her mom unfolded the stroller.
It was a weekday. And she looked so young. I thought maybe she was a teenager, though the closer I get to 40 the younger everyone under 25 looks. Maybe she wasn’t. But she was young.
I don’t like to stare but sometimes when I observe it looks like staring and I’m not trying to be rude, only to take in information and process all the thoughts I’m thinking. I saw her, this young girl, and I wanted to say something, although speaking to strangers is not something I’m quick to do.
Teenagers who are also mothers are nothing new to this era but there are still people who might feel the need to comment or shake their heads in disbelief. Once upon a time, I might have been one of those people.
But when I saw this young mother, I saw something new.
I saw my own mother.
She was a teenager when I was born, and I can only imagine the looks and comments she might have endured. (I realize I don’t know this about her, whether she faced judgment and shame. Maybe this is my way of asking.) Nearly 40 years later, I am the woman, a mother myself, who was the baby of that teenage mom.
I wanted to hug her, this stranger with a baby, but if I can’t bring myself to talk to strangers, I certainly can’t work up the nerve for hugs.
I wanted to tell her these things, how my mother was young raising me and how I’m so glad. That she had me. That she persevered when times were tough. That she gave up the life she thought she might have to have me and three years later, my brother. That she now has the opportunity to be a grandmother to my children.
“Good work,” I wanted to say. “Your child is so lucky.”
In the end, I said nothing.
—
My friend arrived and we sat across from each other in a booth, menus untouched.
“How are you? How have things been?”
Tears were my answer. The reason for our lunch, other than that it had been too long since we’d talked, was our family’s present circumstances: unexpected unemployment. Insecurity about the future. She is the friend who saved me when my husband was in seminary, who has walked so much of this jagged path with me. I lamented. She heard. And she took me to lunch.
I left feeling lighter. Nothing solved except burdens shared, dreams spoken, encouragement received.
The weather was gray and mild like spring although it was January, a brief respite from the winter chill. Not unlike the hours spent with my friend.
—
I exited the parking lot, the worries returning after a brief suspension. The car was behaving badly, and in just a few minutes, I’d be home again and we’d be thinking, always thinking, about what to do next. Added to these were global concerns, ones I can’t shake. I turned up the music, my favorite album for this kind of day, and I pulled onto the street that would take me to the highway that would take me back to the house.
As I pulled up to the stoplight, I saw him standing in the median. I looked away because it is my first instinct with anyone new and also because if I don’t see, then I don’t have to do anything. But I was second in line for the red light, which was long, and I couldn’t ignore him. He wasn’t pushy. He didn’t approach. Just stood in the median holding a sign. “Homeless amputee veteran.” I saw what was left of his right arm clutching the cardboard. I couldn’t read the rest of the sign, but it didn’t matter.
I thought about our circumstances, how little we have, how much less we expect in the near future, and I tried to excuse myself from this moment. Next time, I thought. Some other time. Plus, there were all those other times I gave someone money.
But the light stayed red and I had $2 in my purse, so I reached down and extracted the bills, which felt like no kind of help at all, but no one else was moving. I rolled down the window and I spoke.
“I only have a couple of dollars, but you’re welcome to them.”
He noticed me after I’d said a few words. He approached the car and I handed him the money and I looked in his eyes, young and sad.
“What is your name?”
“Justin,” he said.
I told him my name. “Nice to meet you,” I said. “Have a good day.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
He retreated to the middle of the median again, and I drove away, taking my exit to the highway to home.
—
“… the story of any one of us is in some measure the story of us all.”
Phil and I read this sentence written by theologian Frederick Buechner earlier this week and it stood out to both of us. It is the reason I think these two people got my attention. The young girl with the baby, there’s a thread of that story in my past. The homeless veteran asking for help, there’s a thread of that story in our present. We know what it is to be close to desperate, to need to ask for help.
If only a few things were different in our life, we could be just like him. I don’t say that to be dramatic. Nor do I think it is “But for the grace of God go I.” I am not more worthy of God’s grace than someone else. It is because of His grace that I offer it to others. And looking in that kid’s eyes (for he was a kid, really) I felt closer to the kingdom than I do in church. It was holy ground.
—
Stories.
This is what I think is going to save the world. And by save the world, I mean save us from each other and for each other. (I know that Jesus saved us and continues to save us, but I think he wants our participation in this reclaiming of a world gone mad.)
If we are all part of the same story, if what is happening to you has happened to me or could someday in the future, then I need to participate in your chapter. Or at the very least recognize that we have something in common.
Jonathan Simcoe via Unsplash
What if we looked for ourselves in other people’s lives? What if we asked questions before we assumed things? What if we listened before we spoke?
And what if we told our stories? And not just the happy ending ones but the messy middle ones. The ones where we aren’t quite sure how it’s going to turn out yet. The ones that brought us to the end of ourselves.
Once I know a person’s story, it’s harder for me to create distance. Stories help me understand and we all need to understand each other better.
I am constantly on the lookout for stories, though I admit I could do better at finding myself in other people’s stories.
Whose story do you need to hear? What story do you need to tell? How have you found a piece of your own story in someone else’s life?
were the behind-the-scenes chapters on the set of Gone With the Wind, where Violet Mayfield ends up working after moving to Los Angeles for a fresh start. She meets an unlikely friend and roommate in Audrey Duvall, who was on the cusp of stardom before movies had sound. The two women forge their way toward their dreams, until what they both want comes into conflict.
