WHOSE STORY IS IT?

As I slowly recover from the soul-sucking trauma of nursing school and struggle to figure out how to function as a 21st-century adult female - with full-time job demands, concerns for adult children, responsibilities of caring for an elderly parent, social commitments, etc. - I am also trying to resurrect at least some semblance of consistent writing. There are so many stories to tell!

A couple months ago, I committed to writing here at the blog once a week on Sundays. Weekly blog posts have proven hit-or-miss, but thankfully, this small effort at consistent writing seems to be knocking rust off the machine and greasing the gears.

In late May, the idea for a new book budded.

I need to detour down a bunny trail here to give you a glimpse into my rabbity brain. I love to write. Writing helps me process and make sense of life and the world around me, and often - because God is very kind - writing enables me to connect with other people. This is a precious, precious gift, because connecting with other people is a challenge for this severe introvert.

Sharing thoughts and experiences here at the blog is pretty easy, when I have the time and I am not so completely exhausted that my day-to-day consists of waking sleep. Writing a story is very different. Story writing requires consistent, disciplined, focused time submerged in a story idea that captures my attention and holds my imagination.

I have been praying for a spark! - a captivating idea for a story - for months. Late May, God answered that prayer. With my brain buzzing with excitement, I sat down at the keyboard and began to write.

Chapter One...

Forget Stephen King's writerly advice: 1000 words a day x 100 days = first/rough draft. I am grateful for 400-500 words a day, two or three days a week. My engines are slow. I'm okay with that - I'm just glad they are running again.

Six chapters into this new story, I sat studying the main character one evening this past week, wondering where she would take me next. I like her. I care about her. I hope she will make it from the difficult place she is now to some place more solid, more joyful, more life-giving.

Contemplating this new character, I asked myself a familiar question: "Whose story are you telling, Camille? Her story? Or yours?"

All the characters in the fiction I've written before are, well, fictional. They no doubt contain bits and pieces of individuals I have encountered over the years, plus larger chunks of myself, but the characters are not real people. Their stories may resonate with my story, but their stories are not the same as mine. Still, so much of myself is poured into these characters, how could they not think and sound and act at least a little like me?

So I wrestled with that question - "Whose story are you telling?" - and I wondered: "God, is there a point to this? Is this really a story worth telling? Does anybody even need or want to hear this story?" (I went back to God because I truly believe the story idea came from him in the first place and because, whether it did or not, he is almost always the first one I run to with questions. God doesn't always answer my questions in ways I understand, but I know he hears them all and I know he cares.)

The next morning in my daily Bible reading, I read Acts 2, the account of the coming of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost. The people gathered in Acts 2 began to "speak in other tongues, as the Spirit gave them utterance." Verse 6 tells us that "at this sound the multitude came together, and they were bewildered, because each one was hearing them speak in his own language" (emphasis added). The conclusion of this massive outpouring of the Holy Spirit: "there were added that day about three thousand souls [who believed]" (verse 41).

I have been told multiple times over the course of my 60 years that I over-spiritualize everything. And frequently, I over-personalize things, too. Well, there it is. Thankfully, God knows me and he knows how to communicate with me. He does not dismiss my questions; he answers them in ways that speak to my over-spiritualizing, over-personalizing heart.

I read the first half of Acts 2 again, and then I read it a third time. I felt like God was saying, "Camille, I have given you a distinct voice, a particular life experience, a language that will speak to the heart of someone else who does not know me yet. Press ahead."

Whose story am I telling? I am telling my story, and the story of a fictional character named Marietta Louise Mosby, and the story of a person I have never met, and ultimately, God's story.

Because every story is God's story.

And so, I will press ahead, 500 words at a time.

BEAUTIFUL BOUQUET

The blackberry lily is one of my favorite flowers in the yard because it reminds me of my friend Donna (who gave me the first seeds) and because it does fun, beautiful things all summer long. It also reseeds itself, coming back year after year, which is very attractive since I am a poor gardener.

The first tender leaf blades poking up out of the ground each spring promise summer is near. Then tiny vibrant blossoms, about the size of a half dollar, pop out on delicate stems. As the blossoms wilt, they fold into swirly-curlicues that remind me of the fancy spun-sugar lollipops you see at carnivals and in vacation-destination gas stations. Finally, the seed pods swell and mature: they look exactly like ripe blackberries.

Throughout its entire growth cycle, this little flower is a jewel.

Sort of like long-time friends.

If I remember correctly, Donna and I met in 1997, when my twins were two years old. That means we've been friends for almost 30 years now. Wow! We've experienced the best and worst of life together these 20+ years, and in every season, Donna has consistently encouraged me, challenged me, walked with me in faith, and made my world a more beautiful place.

And there are others - old friends, and even older friends (Jill, dear sister, our friendship is positively paleolithic!) - who through the years have made the happy times happier and the hard times softer, who brought light to dark places and who, on sunny days, reflected the light to absolute brilliance.

It is a treasure to have friends who have known me and walked with me through many seasons of life and who still greet me with welcoming smiles and warm embraces despite all my mess. God has been very, very good to me.

But back to the blackberry lily...

Almost every blooming plant in my yard was a gift from someone dear or was purchased because it reminded me of someone dear.

The compound daylilies by the front steps: fibrous roots were scavenged from a roadside gully by my son Nathaniel when he was a small boy, because he knew how much I loved the flowers.

The fragrant pink roses at two corners of my house: started by my sister Suzanne from cuttings off her own rosebush, a very special rose because it had been my grandmother's.

The purple coneflower: Jane Chase taught me how to care for a newborn and treated my first angry breast infection with tea made from the dried leaves of Echinacea.

The fabulous hydrangea behind the house and the glamorous black petunia on the porch: treasures from Helen.

The scruffy hazel bush with its whimsical, fancy-pants seed casings: a gift from Reuben.

The towering cedar tree in the back yard: the younger kids helped transplant the tree from back on the farm when it was just a whip, to remind me of my first grandchild, the one I have not yet met.

If you have followed this blog for any length of time, you know the writer is chronically tired, overly introspective, and frequently battling demons of one sort or another. Yes, I tend to be heavy. But today...

Today, surrounded by flowers and trees and growing things and reminded of the beautiful people God has placed in my life, I am simply thankful.

FOR TRUTH AND HEALING

In a class I took a couple of years ago, the instructor encouraged students to create superhero avatars to represent themselves. Not being gifted in the area of visual arts, I asked my kids how they would represent me.

One of my daughters sent me this picture of "Integra."

I. Love. It.

* * * * *

We have all probably encountered motivational sayings that go something like this: "Picture the person you want to be, and then do what it takes to become that person."

On a very good day - when I had enough sleep the night before and the sun is shining and I am able to mentally step away from the emotional heaviness brooding in my house - on a very good day, I can almost imagine that person.

Almost.

She lives confidently, communicates effectively, loves well, manages her time productively, visits her children and grandchildren often, makes a good income with benefits and saves for retirement, writes consistently (instead of just talking about wanting to write), exercises regularly, eats healthfully, can engage in intelligent conversation, and....(long gasping inhale)...she gets regular haircuts, her joints don't hurt, and her pants are not too tight.

It is difficult for me to picture that person for a even few fleeting seconds at a time. It is harder still to imagine ever getting remotely close to being that person.

Perhaps I will meet her one day in Glory.

* * * * *

I was born an advocate. I am no Atticus Finch, but a Mama Bear comes out in me when I feel like the vulnerable or people I love are threatened. Maybe this passion springs from my feeling so weak and vulnerable myself. 

As a child, I advocated for every stray dog and cat that wandered onto our farm, for tadpoles in the barnyard water trough, and for the unwelcomed birds nesting on porch pillars.

As a school girl, I advocated for misfits and outcasts among my classmates. School can be such a cruel place.

As a young wife, I advocated for my husband. As a mother, I advocated for my children. As a caregiver, I advocate for my Mom. As a nurse, I advocate for patients.

One person I did not learn to advocate for, however, was myself.

Almost always, it seemed like there were others whose needs were much greater than mine. Repeatedly, nascent attempts at self-advocacy were rebuffed as selfish, inopportune, insubordinate, or unbiblical. If I asked for help, I was being demanding or un-submissive. If I was weak and stumbling, I needed to "pull myself together" or "get over it."

Whatever the reason, the skill of self-advocacy is something I never developed, at least not very well.

* * * * *

"Picture the person you want to be, and then do what it takes to become that person."

I want to be a person who loves people where they are, who isn't threatened by differences or uncomfortable realities, who celebrates life in all its diversity, who advocates for the vulnerable, who champions integrity, and who promotes healing...for others and for myself.

And so, I am trying to make peace with the person I am, to appreciate her strengths and gifts while being honest about her weaknesses and shortcomings, to acknowledge her wounds and promote her healing, to give her room and grace to breathe and grow and to simply be.

Truth and healing.

Integra.

FAIL!

Lessons I struggle to understand:

Life is not a contest.

Life is not a test.

Due to my own strange internal wiring, outside influences, and life experiences, I have lived my entire life conscious that I was being "graded." Every action, every decision, every feeling, every response - judged, scored, and ranked like I was a competitive gymnast.

On top of the consciousness that I am constantly being graded is an acute feeling that "good" or "good enough" is not acceptable: anything less than "best" is a failing grade.

And on top of those two nasties, I am also a chronic people-pleaser. I really want others to be happy with me. A teacher, an employer, my spouse, my children, my parents, the driver next to me on the 4-lane, the produce clerk at Kroger...every single relationship and interaction is tangled with spoken and unspoken expectations of "acceptable" and "unsatisfactory."

Y'all, this is a sorry way to live. Do you better understand now what I mean when I say there is no quiet space in my life? And why I am always tired?

But things are beginning to change. (Baby steps, Camille.)

I am beginning to understand that my preference for comedies or psychologically complex movies vs. another person's preference for crime thrillers or action movies is not a matter of character weakness or moral frailty. It's just a preference. And it's okay. Really.

I am learning that having a perspective or opinion about current events, politics, worship styles, etc., that does not line up precisely with someone else's opinion is not an act of insubordination, rebellion, or apostasy. It's just a personal opinion. And that's okay. Really.

I am not naïve. I do know that others I encounter will continue to score, judge, rank, and critique...but I am beginning to understand, very slowly, that that is their problem, not mine. As for me, my every thought, preference, or action is not going to be graded, ranked, ridiculed, and stamped FAIL! by a sadistic celestial Trunchbull.

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.