It seems so simple, doesn’t it? Just talk about your life. Tell everyone what happened, how you felt, who was there, who wasn’t. What hurt? Did it heal? Did you learn?
I have been looking my story in the face, running my hands over it’s edges, feeling it rise and fall with breath, remembering that it is a living thing. I’d much rather tell a story with a tombstone. That morbidly obese mentally ill girl? Dead. Done. She found Jesus and the Paleo diet and now her life is awesome. THE END!
I want to tell the story from a distance, preach around it, insert perfectly italicized bible verses throughout to show you how clearly I see the redemptive hand of God in my life. I want to stand on top of it, proud, victorious. I want mastery. But what I have is the story, the one I am still in.
It is my face I see, my edges I feel, my breath heaving in this chest. Surprisingly, there is no distance between this charismatic mother of two and the fat girl with the knife up to her neck.