The stories we tell
For the 60th anniversary of Shalem Mental Health Network.
The stories we tell ourselves
are eye-witness
first person accounts
…..from the front line
……….of what it means to be me.
With a twist.
In the stories we tell ourselves
you’re the hero, not me.
I’m nothing.
I wish I was you.
The stories we tell ourselves
trick us
into thinking
they’re not worth the telling,
that they’re no
page-turner, no thriller,
and certainly not the mystery
…..they most certainly are,
a mystery that resolves
into the greatest love.
In the stories we tell ourselves
we stand naked behind the podium
at the banquet
and everyone smiles
…..a sad, disappointed smile.
In the stories we tell
there are good guys and bad
…..guys,
or no guys at all,
just people,
people sitting at tables.
All naked.
The body remembers
what you did in the war,
…..to your sister, your brother.
What you didn’t do.
From one generation to the
…..next.
The body remembers
what was done.
If people
…..only knew
……….the real story.
In the real story
there is a chase scene
in which the Maker hunts
you down,
…..but in a good way—
comes calling
…..in the cool of the day,
and asks what the problem is,
why are you running, slow
…..down,
…..who told you that?
then creates the world’s first
treadle sewing machine,
sets it among the trees of the
…..garden,
and moments later, voila!
Leaf briefs and a bra.
Leaf briefs and a bra.
The Maker injects a little levity
…..into the story
……….we tell ourselves.
There is no shame in this.
This being human.
This being who we are
…..created to be.
Perfectly imperfect.
Put that
…..in the stories we tell ourselves.
In the stories we tell ourselves
we wish the pain would go
…..away,
even though we suspect it to be true
that the wound, our brokenness,
…..names us,
and if we can bear it,
and not run away, but stay
and tell, that we’ll hear
our own name spoken
…..as if for the first time,
and we’ll recognize the Gardener
in the one
…..who stands before us,
and experience the great surprise
we somehow knew all along,
that there is life
after this death
…..we have been living
……….for so long.
Maker. Gardener. Songwriter.
There is a story written
between the lines
…..of the stories we tell ourselves.
It’s more like a song, really.
The sweetest melody.
Sing me. Sing me that song.
Wow! Wonderful poem. I am on a retreat, trying to write my story for my children and grandchildren. It’s so easy to hide the truth (I hear those voices saying, “don’t toot your own horn!”) but you’ve reminded me of the bigger story: it’s all about grace.