The decisions we make today will define the stories that get told about us…we are all writing a story with our lives.
~ Josh Becker
That’s a sobering thought. And, I might add, it is probably something we should hear from time to time…just to remind us that we do not live unto ourselves, that people around us are watching us and listening to us. They tell our stories and will tell our stories, whether we want them to or not.
Near our home in Lance aux Epines, Grenada, where I grew up, two old women lived together in a small house. We really never knew them. In fact, we couldn’t get to know them because every time we got close to their home, they would come out and threaten us—“Get away from here, or we’ll call the police!” We didn’t even have malicious intentions…well, not in the beginning anyway.
They continued to over-react and threaten us for seemingly no reasons at all every time we were perceived as too close to their home. So, we began to push back. And, then Halloween came around. Of course, we had to trick-or-treat at every house around us, so the “old ladies”—the “old queens,” as we called them—wouldn’t be spared. They were given the wonderful opportunity of gifting us with candies…but, again, “Get out of here!” So, we children regrouped, made a plan, rained down rocks on their roof. At that time in Grenada, all of the roofs were corrugated tin…and the sound of raining stones was quite deafening for them, I’m sure. They called the police…but, really—it took them an hour to arrive, and we were long gone.
The story we have about the “old ladies” is a story of rejection, rudeness, and retribution. Imagine how different might that story have been if the ladies had taken time to tell one of us about their desire for quiet and solitude, if they had engaged us just briefly to tell us that they were in fact ‘old’ and just wanted to be left be. Their decisions and actions indeed determined their stories. (Oh, I cannot in any way justify the silly, childish response on our part, so I won’t even try! Now, that foolishness is part of my story….)
Dr. Sarah Wingard was a person to be feared above all others in our English department in college. Yet, she was perhaps the least imposing person physically—her slight, barely-5-foot frame and arthritis twisted hands might have suggested weakness. However, sitting in her British Lit class revealed an amazingly intimidating person with a withering look—she quickly became larger than life.
She was not really an amazing lecturer, but somehow she captured our minds and carried us with her through centuries of literature, introducing us to hundreds of unforgettable writers and characters. While the average person on our campus would have known well the reputation of this professor, a few of us developed a different take on Dr. Wingard: She was a person who cared about her students, but one wouldn’t find that out until one needed care.
I had been wrestling with some depression, issues of personal identity, and some soggy winter weather—all three of which conspired to keep me snuzzled in my bed for a day or two…or three. Then, the knock came at the door late one morning as a voice of one of my classmates called through:
“Hey, Jon. Dr. Wingard wants you at her office today at 2pm.”
She sent word to me to be at her office? Yikes! I knew I was in for it now. I had skipped her class twice that week. With fear and trepidation, and with a pocket full of well-crafted excuses and explanations, I walked across campus to the humanities building and up to her office door. I rapped softly and heard that strong voice, “Come in.” I went in. She sat behind her large desk piled with papers and books. “Sit down, Jon.” So, I sat.
“What’s going on, Jon—you’ve missed two classes, and you’re going to get so far behind you won’t be able to catch up. You’re too smart and too good a student to let that happen. What’s going on?”
All of my pretense fell away, my excuses went out the window…and I told her about my depression and of my struggles. She listened earnestly and then gently reminded me of the poets we had studied, of their struggles…and she pointed me back to the same literature we had studied in class: “There, in those words, you will find words that will lift you and carry you and inspire you.” At the end of our chat, she looked me in the eye and said, “I will see you in class tomorrow.”
She was right. To this day, the words of Wordsworth and Blake and Shelley do move me and carry me, literature does lift me. And, because of her compassion that Thursday afternoon, to this day I remember Dr. Wingard as a ‘formidable’ professor yet as a person who cared enough to call me out of my pit and point me towards the light.
Our decisions, our actions, and our reactions do pen our stories—the ones others tell about us. When we reach out to others, when we engage, when we act out of good intentions, we write stories that others will eagerly tell with joy. When we refuse to engage or when we engage negatively, we write stories that others will tell as well…stories of warning and how not to be.
Today, I determine anew to act in ways that write a good story because someday, somewhere, someone will tell stories of Jon to others. May I (and we) live well that ours may be good stories….
