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.

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.

All Creation is Theft

Today is about stealing.

Jeff Goings will tell you today that the 6th habit of great writers is their propensity to steal. I agree. They (we) don’t always realize they (we) do it, but at least a bit is stolen.

We all have hidden influencers, as much as we have recognized models we admire or even imitate.

Theft is even more true in terms of creativity, but for an entirely different reason. An important reason.

Namely, origins.

The brilliant thinkers of the ancient world told of the Muses. The daughters of the gods gave mortals inspiration. Creativity was borrowed. Co-opted. It was not a product of spontaneous generation. It neither started nor ended with a human. Genius wasn’t characteristic of a person, but of an influence.

There is but one true source for creation and creativity Theos …deity.

In Christianity, a monotheist Source.

It’s all a heist, my friends. A beautiful heist. The more personal of twist we put on the process and delivery the less it’s identifiable as stealing.

Now, it’s your turn:

Do you agree?
Who or what have been your biggest influencers? 

And what are some of your possible hidden influencers? 

Prayer, Prostitutes, and Unmet Expectations

antichi mestieri...
Creative Commons License Photo Credit: Fabio Pierboni via Compfight (brothel menu)

On Sunday, I heard someone say, “Sometimes when I pray, I don’t feel anything.”

Has this happened to you? It has for me.
There’s no magic. It’s like talking to the wall.

“Blah blah blah. meh.”

Sometimes we approach prayer and other spiritual practices with certain expectations, right? We want an experience or we hope for some immediate return for our effort. It shouldn’t be dull, we think. It shouldn’t be lifeless.

In trying to connect with God we wonder if it’s really a two way street.

Maybe it’s the same thing we wonder in our other relationships. Am I doing all the rowing on this boat?

In this, I’m reminded of the lessons from my seminary professor who made a point to tell us that Yahweh switched things up on his people–most of the time. No victory was won the same way twice. Was God pushing the limits of their expectations? Probably.

I wonder if these variances happened precisely because God is personal. I wonder if God is always the same by way of consistently changing: A characteristic of a living God and ongoing relationship. Usually personal beings resist manipulation, right?

What happens when we want something to be predictable…a sure thing? A wife and a prostitute can do the same horizontal function, but there’s something about doing it for cash changes the whole thing…a lot, I assume. The latter is less a relationship and more of a phlegmatic transaction with the veneer of allure. The outcome is very predictable. Hence, relationship as a commodity has a dehumanizing (or depersonalizing) consequence. (Refer to the above image posted outside a brothel. It’s a menu.)

Isn’t it spiritually healthier for us when God shows us that he’s not coin operated or predictable, but rather relational and multifaceted? We wouldn’t want to be treated like a vending machine either, so maybe it makes sense that God would “keep things fresh”. Strangely, God risks frustrating us to foster growth.

If you’re feeling like you’re “praying to the wall” lately, realize that you are the verge of a growth-enhancing switcheroo…better named: a new movement of the divine. Be on the look out for it.

Oh, and when you spot it then it’ll change again soon.

Through this God shows us that he’s intricate and personal, not static and mechanized. He draws us into something deeper. He gives us something for an advancement of faith, sight unseen.

Where are you right now?
On the verge of change or knee-deep in a fresh one?

Thoughts or comments?