When I was a child my family lived on the corner of a quiet neighborhood on the edge of the city that often reminds me of the setting for a good book. It was a small house painted with strong earth tones, and smeared with the scent of boys and mischief marking the residence to outsiders as a land of adventure and potential danger. It had a small garden that grew terrible adult foods like eggplant and zucchini, with the occasional sunflower larger than a giant’s head that would spring out of a watering of hope and meticulous tending. A pecan tree older than the community itself graciously shaded most of the front lawn, and there was just enough sidewalk on the far end of the lot to get up to top speed on a poorly assembled Chinese scooter.
What I really miss about the property though is the old fort that we built in the backyard. Every so often our grandparents would come into town to celebrate Christmas and we’d enjoy the fruit of my grandfather's decades of experience as a craftsman. In the summer we’d grab sleeping bags and make our way into the fort about eight feet off the ground to get a better view of the sky during meteor showers. Before the main event we’d snag jars of fireflies to light our fortress, and use homemade telescopes to survey the sky trying to convince ourselves that the dollar store mirror we used was helping the endeavor.
I didn’t know it at the time, but lying out under the naked cosmos like this made for a good story.
This is what, in part, we are made for; stories so grand that they beg to be re-told. Ever notice how a Hollywood classic or New York Times best seller is never about a dull story? We long to tell again and again the stories that make up the fabric of lives well lived.
But why tell a better story?
Because we are made for it.
Every fiber in our being screams out to tell the best stories possible. In the lives of other people it is what we hope for, what we desire to come to fruition in every area. Forgiveness, conflict, joy, courage, adventure…we could talk for a lifetime about all the ways we root for those around us to tell a better story in one way or another. We also see this reality played out in the Bible time and again.
A man thrown into a pit to die ends up running a civilization.
A boy who babysits sheep saves his people from genocide.
A virgin destined to be forgotten by history births God in the flesh.
What are the stories we are telling with our lives today? Are they the types of stories that will find themselves needing to bleed onto a page, or ones that will be forgotten among a pile of wasted memories?
As we've looked at what is vital to starting this journey together, in part one we examined letting go of ourselves and our wounds to embrace the healing and life Jesus offers us. In part two we talked about why it is important to invite God with us in this journey toward a better life and what that means for us. Before we set sail into the unknown, this must be the last thing we resolve – to live a life worth living.
Donald Miller says it this way:
“Once you live a good story, you get a taste for a kind of meaning in life, and you can't go back to being normal; you can't go back to meaningless scenes stitched together by the forgettable thread of wasted time.”
How do we do that? How do we tell a better story than what is being told by our lives right now?
Along the way we’ll be exploring all kinds of specific examples on how to live well and tell better stories across every area of life. The choice to change has to come before all of this though. We must resolve to engage where we have not before; move where we have only lain dormant; speak where only silence has existed as a void.
Today, wherever you are, spend time by yourself discovering where you are dissatisfied with your story, and offer God time to engage you in this idea.
Then decide what needs to change. Maybe that means talking to the barista you see in the mornings. Or joining that thing you've wanted to be a part of for so long. Perhaps change looks like asking your spouse for forgiveness. Or just stopping and making some time in your schedule this week to rest. We start telling better stories one moment at a time, one choice a time. This doesn't have to mean you get on the next plane to Far Far Away.
But it may mean inviting your neighbors over for dinner.