Writing down the small stuff

 I’ve been teaching a series of classes on “Writing Your Life Stories.” The class is mostly older adults, each with a lifetime of experiences and memories. These experiences and memories comprise a legacy to pass down to grandchildren, friends, even organizations and churches.

Since the idea of writing a memoir or autobiography can be daunting, I’ve been emphasizing the small stuff, memories of single events or relationships that even now evoke a smile, a laugh, or a grimace. Stuff you wish your brand-new great grandson would know about you someday, so he could smile, laugh or grimace along with you. So he could know you.

Small stuff can be a response to a prompt: “The time my prank got me into big trouble,” “The ugliest clothes I ever wore,” “My most interesting job,” “What I learned from my dad,” “When God answered my prayer,” “The time I thought I’d lose my life,” “How I met my husband/wife.” And so on. You get the idea. Small stuff includes the funny stories you tell time and again in family reunions. Those are stories worth writing down.

One idea I gave was that of writing a series of stories around a certain theme. I shared my friend’s collection of stories of his encounters with animals. Gary has traveled widely, so the stories included lions, as well as local critters—deer, birds, and the owl that stole his hat from off his head. He put these stories into a book (shutterfly.com) that included photographs and gave one to each of his grandkids.

Another friend read in class one of the stories from his collection of times God answered a prayer.

That gave me inspiration to begin making my own collection.

I’ve been reading through my old journals, being inspired, entertained, and appalled at things in my past. Some experiences I definitely want my descendants to know. A few pages I tore out and shredded. But overall, I’ve been delighted to stand back and see the growth. Among other things, I’ve recognized patterns in my relationship with God and ways he has touched my life.

So I decided to write stories about ways God has spoken to me—specific messages in concrete situations. Part of what interests me are all the different ways God has spoken: through dreams and visions, through a Bible passage, through a prophetic word, through a discerning friend or family member, through a circumstance that acted as a sign, through a Quaker meeting for clearness, and through a talking donkey (just kidding about that last one—although it’s in the Bible). Often God has spoken through an inward nudge or sense. Holy intuition.

Not that I aways get the message right. I’m human and make mistakes. Sometimes a “message” doesn’t come from God. Even so, I’m listening and hopefully practice is giving me more discernment.

Anyway, I’ve got the stories and I’m typing them from my journals into a folder.

My journals are full of dreams. I don’t remember most of my dreams; often I wake up and try to capture a dream, but it flies out of reach and disappears. But some dreams stick around after I wake up, and I pay attention to those dreams. I write them down. Not all are to be considered messages from God. Probably most of them come from my subconscious mind and indicate a fear to be faced or some unresolved issue. These are helpful.

Sometimes God does speak through a dream. I’ve found a number of these in my journals. I’ll share one here. It’s “small stuff,” really, but it encouraged me at the time. If I were to give it a title, I’d call it “The Pooping Baby Dream.”

Background: It was 1999 and Hal and I had recently moved to Santa Cruz, Bolivia at the invitation of the Bolivian Evangelical University to begin a masters program in missions. We arrived excited, ready to work. We were assigned a team of interested faculty members and together began to design the program. But we soon ran into roadblocks, and disagreements with university personnel.

Bolivia is a lovely country, but it comes gift-wrapped in red tape. Even in a Christian university. Administrative hassles, squabbling between academic departments, requirements we didn’t understand, and so on. I guess this stuff is normal in institutions, Christian or not. To add to our difficulties, in order for the degree we would offer to be recognized, the Bolivian government had a long and complex process of legalization.

We grew weary and at one point questioned our call to this task.

The Dream: In my dream I had given birth to a new baby. She was beautiful, healthy, and big—the size of a three-month old at birth. She was smiling, cooing, eating applesauce, shaking her rattle. A very accomplished new-born. We loved her and she responded to us.

The only problem was that she was a super-pooper. Much more than normal. As soon as we changed her, she would fill up her diaper again. And each time, the poop made her heavy. She was hard to hold with all that weight. And of course it was all very messy. I don’t really want to describe that part, so I won’t.

But we loved her dearly and recognized her as a gift from God, in spite of the inconvenience of constant diaper duty. Hal assured me that she would outgrow it in time.

The Interpretation: I woke up laughing. Hal was already awake, so I told him the dream. His response surprised me. “Nancy! Don’t you see what God is telling us?!!!”

Well, no. I didn’t see it at all. It was just a funny and strange dream.

Hal went on to explain what had been instantly obvious to him, that God was encouraging us. He was saying that giving birth to something new and good was naturally a messy process. It was normal. We needed to cherish the gift of this opportunity, proceed through all the mess, and have faith that it would all work out in the end.

We both lay in bed laughing and praising God.

And it did work out in the end, but that’s another story.

I’m hoping that my collection of stories of God speaking can be an encouragement to other people someday, and occasionally give them something to laugh about. I’m glad God has a sense of humor.

Cherish the small stuff. Write it down.

The story catchers

 The residents here in the retirement community actively contribute to our shared life in many ways. Some serve informally, just by being who they are, outgoing people who check up on their neighbors and run errands when needed, or introverts who serve behind the scenes. And others serve the community by participating in one or more of the many committees.

When we first moved here, I was leery of joining a committee. (See the previous blog.) After all, retirement meant simplifying my life, letting go of possessions and busy work. So I took a year to figure out how I could contribute to life here. I looked into the committees (some 30-40 at the time!) and found a few I might enjoy. The photography club (I’m not a gifted photographer—I just want to be) or the library committee were possibilities.

In the meantime, I was getting to know people—conversing over meals in the dining hall, sitting together in the educational lectures, or walking the canyon trail down by the creek. We were renewing old friendships and forming new ones.

One aspect of all this that especially delighted me with were the stories people told—not just former occupations and how many great-grandchildren they had, but past adventures, challenges, heartbreaks, and just plain funny stories. These people were funny, and they were good story-tellers. Since I listen better than I talk, I soon gathered a good collection of resident stories. I thought it would be good if more people heard (or read) these stories. In the meantime I was looking for a good committee to join. I found it surprising there wasn’t a writers group and thought briefly about beginning one. But then another idea popped into my head.

I remembered an activity in a church that had impressed me. Several members of the West Hills Friends Church had joined forces to publish a community journal. It came out every two months, with church members responding to a specific theme. I thought that since this retirement home with its some 400 members was a gold mine of stories, this might be a good way to share and preserve some of those stories.

I talked to people to see if there might be interest in such a publication. There was. It took a year to gather interested people, discuss and plan the characteristics of the journal and our processes for producing it, write up a proposal, present it to the Residents’ Council, then wait for them to approve it. They did. The council declared us an official committee (although we resisted the “committee” label; we call ourselves “The Story Catchers.”).

In the spring of 2018, we published our first issue. Since that time “The Story Catcher: A Community Journal” has come out every three months, with some 14 stories in each issue. Residents respond to specific themes, such as “When did another person do or say something that made a difference in your life?”, “Tell about a time you experienced a sense of wonder,” or “Tell about a situation where you were involved in an issue of peace or social justice.”

As an example, following is a story from the Spring 2019 issue on the theme, “Tell about a time you were rescued from danger.” The author is Hal Thomas, who just happens to be my husband. (It was easy to get his permission to reprint the story!)

Pariah Dog
Hal Thomas, Manor 5^th Floor

When I was 14 years old, a freshman in Shadle Park High School in Spokane, my band and orchestra director asked me if I would be willing to play the French horn with the local German band in the city. I was already playing with the Junior Symphony and thoroughly enjoyed it. So a week later I took the bus into the center of the city.  Rehearsal began at 7:30 p.m. and ended just before 10:00 when the last bus went to the section of town where I lived. It was wintertime and a sleety cold night.  I found the address was just off the section of town we knew as Skid Row that I had visited various times with my father who often preached and helped in a rescue mission to homeless alcoholic men and women.  It was a dangerous section of town.  I felt fear as I got off the bus, realizing I carried a new and valuable instrument at my side and that I had to find the side street address. 

As I stepped down from the bus, a German Shepherd dog walked up to me and took his place at my side.  He was thin and somewhat scruffy, and I wondered where his owner was, or if he had a person.  He then accompanied me as I walked those streets, keeping his place at my side, occasionally looking up at me. Heavily bundled people on the street veered around me, looking at the dog.  As he kept his distance, one equally unkept man pointed at him and asked if he were my dog. I replied that he wasn’t but had joined me.  The dog stayed beside me, facing the man. We arrived at the address, a dark storefront. As I entered, the dog lay down beside the door. 

I finished the practice, with its interminable after-beats and hundred-measure-rests assigned to the French horn in popular German music. It was late, but as I walked through the door, the dog again joined me and accompanied me through the freezing streets.  At the bus stop, he sat beside me as I waited.  The bus came, and I desperately wanted to take him home with me.  I knew I could not take him on the bus. I also knew that we did not have any place to keep him or even the resources to feed him. I considered walking the three or four miles home just to keep him with me, but I knew I could not do it safely in that stormy cold and that I would arrive after midnight. I boarded the bus. The dog remained sitting in the street, watching me.  As the bus pulled away, I watched from the window as he waited, then turned into the shadows. I felt I had betrayed him and tried to stifle my sobs. I had talked to him, but had never touched him. He had acted like a trained guide dog. 

I thought even then about the protection I knew I needed and that he gave me. I never returned to play with that band because of the practices that ended so late, and the danger of that section of town at night.  I knew God had accompanied me. I wondered if maybe the dog was an angel that vanished in those shadows. Maybe he found a place to shelter himself from the storm and some food. I don’t know, but I still thank God for him.