November 2, 2011 § 2 Comments
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.