My story has its roots in the heartland of lush soil, with an expanse of waving tasseled corn, standing straight and strong and heavy heads of wheat bending down under the load of fruit.
My story is nestled in the river valley, which extends into hills of sandy-loam dotted with grazing cattle and the aquifer that pumps wild and deep through live veins, pulsing below the surface.
My story has roots in the wail of a not-so-distant whistle. Of trains that slip into and pass through, the largest-scale reclassification rail yard in the world. Its iron arteries weave a tapestry of metal matrix that connect my remote area with the outer edges of the world, meeting supply and demand beyond the metal lines.
My story is inter-weaved with the beautiful souls of family, all broken and messy. These fragmented, rag-tag bunch, with roots all tangled in pride and intolerance, full of individual fears and fractured dreams. And in the tattered edges of life that continue to be made smooth through love, prayer and the revealing of dark places so that light can expose and heal it all.
My story is the accumulation of over 20,000 rising and settings of the one blazing sun that has travels its path across invisible flyways that crisscross my days, all mapped and marked out by the fullness of them.
My story is a tale of tragedy, shattered dreams, darkness that can be felt and this not-ever-being-enough. It is the weaving of a new narrative of life abundant, stuffed full of blessings. Of redemption winning and of my life’s ashes, becoming a sweet incense that rises from dry dusty plains.
My story is intricately interlaced with the colorful life-threads of others and their unique tales. These modern day miracles, the brave, the ones who think they are just average and all the grey-haired heroes, who wear the crowns of real life lived.
Our stories, all converging and colliding with every other story in the one Great Story.
These broken stories that need to be mended and amended. Written and rewritten.
How each and every story is a grand mystery, full of suspense, shrouded in some unknown and written as we response to what life hands us. And maybe we all need to read between the lines of each other’s stories and own our life stories?
These stories of the real, the raw, and where God intersect it all?
Typing words on a page isn't as important as the life we live out in the margins.
Do you think, like I do, that your story is too wild, too messy, too painful, too boring. That it isn't beautiful or important? That success is measured by some man-made yard stick and that someday the whole thing will just be summed up by the etching on a stone set on fresh dirt, with two dates carved.
Friends, every story, every life lived, is far more than just a dash between the date you were born and the date you will depart.
But we have to live our dash well.
Your beautiful life can only be lived by you and you alone hold the starring role.
Every word, every sigh, and every single tear is collected in heaven and weaved into the main story.
Indeed, your one beautiful life carries with it the very weight of glory.
Your story was created for all glory to live in you, to shine from you, and to point others to our Creator.
May we all have stories of ridiculous grace, deep hope and unwavering love.
So I'll get you started:
Once upon a time….. (You have to fill in the rest.)
I love your story already.