Storyless (Guest Post by Ross Gale)

(Ross is the one in the hat)

Storyless
-by Ross Gale

I have a friend whose mother tells a story of her as a child: when studying for a third grade test using flash cards, my friend strained to think about the answers. Sometimes her mother would have to say the answers out loud, but even then my friend didn’t seem to connect the dots. She’d keep thinking, the answer too far beyond her. Her mother laughs a bit and says, as a child she was a little stupid. This is the story my friend tells herself, that she is stupid.

When she was in junior high and missing school from an illness, she’d beg her mother to return her to class because she needed to get smarter. She loved school. She did not like being stupid.

She is in her twenties now and the stories her parents tell her influence her. She is an over-achiever in the sense that grades matter to her because they reflect who she is. She’s always trying to prove the story wrong, but she also seems to believe that she’ll never be able to prove it wrong. She’ll always be stupid.

The story my father tells me is about when I was three and he was sick in bed with the flu. Everyone was out of the house for the day so I stayed by my father’s side. I didn’t cry or fuss or ask for anything. I just stayed there because he needed me. My father says I have the biggest heart of anyone he knows. The story tells me something about myself. This is who I believe I am.

The stories parents tell their children about them are stories that shape their identity and purpose.

 

When Mary and Joseph take their son Jesus to Egypt, I imagine them telling him the stories surrounding his birth, the reason they weren’t living in Palestine, and what the angels had each pronounced to them. Before he knew who he was through Scripture, he knew who he was from his parents’ stories.

When a child is disabled like my brother KC, who had a traumatic brain injury at three, the stories my parents tell are stories about a different boy, they are stories about a boy without a disability who doesn’t have seizures, who can run and play sports, who can graduate high school, who can annunciate his words, and speak clearly. They tell stories about a boy with athletic prowess and a stubborn attitude.

An accident like KC’s, however, renders the stories meaningless. With an accident like KC’s he becomes a storyless boy. How do you shape the identity and purpose of a storyless child? This is the tragedy of tragedy; it robs the power of story.

We have a God who gives us this purpose and identity so even when our stories are harmful or meaningless or shameful or stolen, we can become a part of a new story. God’s story. A story of hope, redemption, and meaning.

 

Ross Gale is a writer and editor from Oregon. His work is featured in Burnside Writers Collective, Antler, Relief Journal, Archipelago, and he contributes to MagicalTeaching.com. He earned his Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Seattle Pacific University. He blogs at rcgale.com where he’s editing the “Bereshit Bara Creativity Series” which asks 13 Creatives to wrestle with questions about what gives them the courage to create.

A Little Birdie Told Me

(This birdie card is an original creation: A Superb Snail Mail postcard I’m sending out to a savvy lover of mail.)

So now that there’s enough interest in Superb Snail Mail to keep me busy, I thought I’d post about the power of birdies. 

Like a whisper Twitter started chirping and soon journalists learned to scour the twitter feeds for breaking news. One of the first big breaks was the tweeted death of the King of Pop, Michael Jackson.

Twitter bucked the wisdom of online gurus and what was already working on the interwebs. Twitter simplicity was so elemental that it felt restrictive. Quick tweets (remember “a little birdie told me”) were held to just 140 characters, even for direct messages. It had its critics and could be exasperating, but it worked.

It turns out news spreads well if the message is simple and widely dispersed.

The same thing will work for you. Think of your message and your creative endeavors like a diaspora of ideas. It doesn’t take a loud voice to get the word it takes lots of little birdies…chirping.

Now, think about a message you’d like to disperse. How many little birdies will it take? Start here, and let us know what you’re working on.

Should we spread this message through Twitter? That would be cool. Click the twitter button.

Word of mouth is fine too. I don’t mind being old fashioned.

A Call to the Prophets and Storytellers….YOU

In my recent short book I discuss how creators and communicators have a pivotal position in society.

They are the Storytellers.

They help others seen the vision just out of reach, and remind us who we really are.

 

They are the modern incarnations (and I use that word to note the Divine aspect) of the prophets of old. The message-bearers. The truth tellers.

 Is this you?

I know it’s me.

You can only live into this calling on your life, or run.
The running away is tiring and it doesn’t change a thing.

Read the rest of the Story and what’s involved for the modern-day prophet for free during July: Here (For that particular section jump to page 127).

Need a little shot in the arm from the ancients?

Here’s a passage from a prophet that works well as a call for the prophets…it’s a herald to the communicators to live out our calling.

Let it be your manifesto today.

Oh! If you can read it out loud. Do it. It’ll add some punch and encourage you!

 

Isaiah 43

 

6b Bring my sons from afar
and my daughters from the ends of the earth—

everyone who is called by my name,
whom I created for my glory,
whom I formed and made.”

Lead out those who have eyes but are blind,
who have ears but are deaf.

All the nations gather together
and the peoples assemble.
Which of their gods foretold this
and proclaimed to us the former things?
Let them bring in their witnesses to prove they were right,
so that others may hear and say, “It is true.”

10 

“You are my witnesses,” declares the Lord,
“and my servant whom I have chosen,
so that you may know and believe me
and understand that I am he.
Before me no god was formed,
nor will there be one after me.

11 

I, even I, am the Lord,
and apart from me there is no savior.

 

What was your favorite part?

What Quiets You?

Sorry to send you into a sugar coma with the cuteness today!

 

Today’s question is “What Quiets YOU?”

I was pleased to hear blogging and leadership superstar Michael Hyatt give out some serious props recently for naps and people who take them. I like working late, but my family needs me early. I need my naps. No, I don’t get them regularly. When I don’t something happens. I fall asleep reading. I go right into REM sleep too…as you might imagine.

Except for when I’m exhausted I can only nap when one other thing is in place:

I must feel safe.

If threats loom I am disquieted.

Trust is what quiets down my soul so I can wade through the rest of it, and lay me down to sleep. Trust in God, Trust in myself, and Trust in others.

In finding what quiets our souls we find not just peace, but vitality, and fullness. (click to tweet that reminder)

The hush may come from acceptance, wonder, rest, or satisfaction from a job well done, but it must be found.

Without it we just keep on wandering.

So ask yourself. “What Quiets Me?” How and where am I most settled?

Write down one word to remind yourself, and tape it up somewhere.

It will help you not just remember to find it, but it’ll help you remember who you really are.

 
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Feel like sharing? What surprising thing calms your soul?

Guest Post by Addie Zierman “building nail by nail…”

I’m happy to have Addie over at the blog, and I know you’ll enjoy this, my friends! Thanks, Addie. To read the other articles in this Series by some amazing people, click here.

Addie Zierman (@addiezierman) is a writer, mom, and Diet Coke enthusiast. She blogs twice a week at How to Talk Evangelical, where she’s working to redefine faith one cliche at a time.

The Ways Blogging is Healing Me
Addie Zierman

In the spring of 2011, I hauled my 8-month-pregnant body to the podium at Hamline University to give my graduate reading. The baby’s feet were jammed up in my ribcage, and my lungs had so little space left for expanding that I had to pause after every couple of sentences to catch my breath.

The manuscript that I read from that night was my memoir, How to Talk Evangelical. I’d started my MFA program as a young, evangelical wife, freshly back from a year of teaching in China. I didn’t know that I was already up to my ankles in the slow-sinking sand of Depression. I didn’t see that wild, angry crisis of faith coming. I smacked into it at full speed.

My manuscript is a reflection of a five-year journey away from and back toward God. I was writing into the anger, into the pain. I was digging through the past, pulling sharp shards of memories out of my heart and into the light.

It was messy and raw and a little volatile, and when I was done, I felt very weak – like someone who has just gotten better from a long bout with a terrible flu and is maybe ready to try eating…but probably just half a piece toast.

One year later, when my agent told me that I needed to start a blog, I felt defeated before I even started. I thought, I am not a blogger. I thought, I have two really little kids and NO TIME EVER.

I thought that “platform” was about numbers and followers and selling a book. But it turned out to be something entirely different.

And here it is: I’d spent five years ripping up the rotten, mildewed boards of my warped view of God. A theology that could not sustain the weight of my pain.

But as I began writing my blog, I realized that we were not so much building a platform for a book as a new platform of faith. A sturdier foundation. Something I could stand on; something that could hold me up.

In keeping with the theme of my book, I began to write, twice a week, about evangelical terms. Cliches. Things like Jesus freak and on fire and feeling God’s presence. I wrote to shine a light on the ways we miss it in the evangelical culture, but instead, I found the light turned in on my own dark places. My own failings and doubts. My own unhealed pain.

The discipline of putting something out there twice a week, every week, feels like a kind of faith in itself.  These days, the old ways of “quiet time” feel foreign and forced, but the blog has given me an unexpected way back in.

Term by term, day by day, I get up and look at the pond while the sun rises. I write a sentence. Erase it. Write two. Erase. Painstakingly, word by word, God is giving me new language, a new way to talk about longing and struggle and doubt. A new way of seeing him.

Where I’ve struggled to be honest about my pain in church and small groups and the usual places where Christians gather, I am finding a new place in the borderless internet. I am finding voices who echo back my heart, and reading them every day is like eating good, hearty bread.

I write, and it feels holy. I read, and it feels like community. And yes, there are days when it’s hard. When my heart gets bogged down with numbers and stats and rejection and the who-said-what of it all…

But most days, it feels like we are all building it together. Like we’re pounding it all out, nail by nail, board by board, with a carpenter from Nazareth.  Like every day, I am finding my footing a little bit more.