Storytellers

Some folks are great storytellers. They have a way of capturing your attention and touching your heart. My Dad was a storyteller. He never let the truth get in the way of a good story. Not that he lied exactly but his stories may have had a little embellishment from time to time. The best cooks add a little spice, so why not let a storyteller add a little flair. Besides, Dad’s stories seemed mostly true to his listeners. The essence of his stories was factual. The names, times and places may have been changed to protect the innocent. The stories Dad told have stood the test of time. He’s gone now but his stories live on. His kids and grandkids can regale any interested listener to this day.

Everyone has a story to tell. What is needed are listeners. How often have I avoided conversations? How many times have I dreaded crossing paths with someone because I didn’t want to hear about the latest heartache or heartbreak. I used to work with a guy who I routinely evaded. He was the kind of guy who if you asked him for the time, he would tell you how to build a clock. I think he was just lonely, and I was just a jerk. Maybe if I had acknowledged him, I would have made a friend. But I was too busy, too important, too egotistical to make myself available. I think my “could-have-been friend” had a story to tell but I couldn’t be bothered.

Now that I’m retired, I would like to use my career as justification for not always listening to others in the past. That would be lie, and not the harmless kind that Dad would weave into his stories, but a bald-faced lie. I just didn’t care enough to listen, really listen. What a loss.

Life is a journey and as with most journeys there are challenges along the way. And opportunities for growth. I’m learning to be an active listener. I’m trying to shut up and listen; to stop planning the response in my head while someone else is speaking. Unfortunately, I’m a slow learner. Perhaps this is the problem in our society today. People like me are so sure of themselves and their positions and their opinions that we don’t the take time to consider that there are others who have something to say; something worth listening to. I recently read (or heard) that truth is the integration of different points of view. That’s something to ponder. My opinion and your opinion and countless other opinions create the truth? If you think you’re right and I know I’m right, but we fundamentally disagree where is the truth in that? I have no idea but I’m trying to listen.

So, here’s the deal: We need to tell our stories. More importantly, we need to listen to others’ stories. And we can share our commonalities and learn to accept our differences. We need to open our minds and our hearts. My Dad once said, “Be open-minded, but not so open-minded that your brain falls out.” I chuckle when I remember that, but I get his point. We can listen to others’ stories respectfully. We can hold on to our “truths” while allowing others a chance to share theirs. We live in a diverse, pluralistic society where many voices make us stronger. We can and must listen and learn. Jesus shared his truth through parables. Perhaps we have our own parables to share.

I’ve read countless times, “Tell your story; sing your song”, but without listeners, storytellers have no story to tell. And we miss out on their wisdom; their insight; their love.

Peace,

Denis

Did I Ever Tell You About The Time…?

I can almost hear the groans as I write this. “YES! We all know that story!”

Maybe someday Noah will continue the legacy

My Dad, God bless him, loves to tell his stories. The problem is that he has told the SAME stories (and jokes) for as long as I can remember. He really needs some new material. Dad is 85 years old now and I suppose he is entitled to repeat himself but everyone in the family can tell his stories verbatim. 

Somehow that doesn’t bother him. He tells them again (and again). Mom usually rolls her eyes and the grandkids giggle because it’s a ritual they’ve come to appreciate. Sometimes they’re the instigators. “Hey Grandpa, how did you and Gram meet?’ or “Hey Grandpa, did you really travel through the Panama Canal during World War II?” or “Grandpa, what’s that joke about the priest, the rabbi, and the Lutheran minister?” And he’s off and running…

Now of course I am doing the same thing (and I’m not certain when it really started). I will repeat the same joke ad nauseam – because “if it’s funny the first time”…

I will recount for the umpteenth time a story (which may contain some truth) about something that happened before most of my captive listeners were born. I CAN’T HELP MYSELF. I don’t know, maybe it’s genetic; maybe it’s a learned behavior. It’s like the cycle of abuse – I’ve become the abuser (in this case the serial story-teller). And I kind of like it. No, I really like it. It’s frightening!

The problem for serial story-tellers like me is that our victims are all too willing. Most people are either too polite to ask that I “shut up” or they are actually entertained (initially). It doesn’t matter. If I have a willing listener – I will talk. All normal social clues such as yawning, looking at a watch, blank stares, preoccupation with cell phones, PDAs, etc., have no power over a serial story-teller. Debbie even tries to ‘intervene’ by asking me to “not tell that one again” – that’s utter foolishness. Once I’ve settled in – you’re there for the WHOLE STORY. I wish I could stop, but I can’t.

And I know that someday I’ll be very sad when Dad’s not around to tell his stories (even though we sometimes groan). But he needn’t worry, I’ll be telling them for him. Maybe that’s my purpose – to keep the flame alive. Perhaps Dad is passing the torch so that HIS stories will live on long after he does. Or maybe it’s just an annoying habit that I’ve picked up.

Either way, did I ever tell you about how Mom and Dad met…?

Peace,

Denis