We All have a Story

Everyone has a story.

Unfortunately, in todays frenzied culture, most of us don’t have the time or energy to find out the stories of everyday acquaintances we encounter. I’m keenly aware of my weakness in this area, but it was brought to light even more when my neighbor recently said, “I love to walk around the neighborhood, give dogs treats and chat with other walkers. But, you always look like you’re in a hurry.”

I awkwardly told him I was training for a speed walking race. He laughed. Awkwardly. 

Admittedly, I have done a poor job getting to know neighbors, acquaintances at my kid’s schools, the guy at the checkout counter who I see week in and week out, and the waitress at one of my favorite breakfast restaurants who knows that I will need extra time to order, even though my husband is ready as soon as we sit. 

We often develop quick opinions of people in our midst, but rarely do we find out their story. Who has the time when you’re trying to fit in a quick walk around the neighborhood?

About fifteen years ago, I was spending a great deal of time in the ICU wing of the hospital where my father was battling cancer. My oldest was only a few months old at the time, but I wanted to be near my dad, so I would pack up her stroller each morning, and since children were not allowed in the ICU rooms, I would spend the majority of the day sitting in the waiting room with my baby. When that got to be too much, I’d stroll her around while she fought sleep and gave her goldfish crackers to keep her quiet. We kept this routine going for several weeks.

During one of these mundane mornings, I began strolling around my fussy daughter and noticed a woman sitting in the corner of the waiting room, clearly agitated. As if she could no longer hold it in, she burst out: “Do you really think this is a place for babies?” 

Too exhausted to tell my story, I got on the elevator and headed down to the main floor. With frustration, I bundled up my daughter to take her outside for a walk when I noticed one of the nurses from the ICU.

She put her hand on my back and with utter gentleness said something I will never forget: “I’ve been watching you in the waiting room each day. Why don’t you go ahead and take your daughter into your dad’s room. I bet he would love it.“

I thanked her but declined knowing this dear nurse would be bending the rules. I kept thinking of the annoyed woman in the waiting room.

The nurse went on to tell me her story. Her own father had died before she had children, and she explained that one of her greatest regrets is that her dad was never able to meet his grandkids. “Let’s have your dad hold his grand baby while he still can.” 

She had a story, and she took the time to share it with me because she cared enough to observe mine. That one way conversation with the nurse, due to my abundant tears, is one of the most beautiful I have ever had.

Several years ago, we had the opportunity to experience a wonderful, five course dinner from a new chef in town. We sat at a long table, mostly filled with strangers and all with stories.

At the end of the table was a bald man sporting a very long beard and arms covered with a eye-catching tattoos. He was a former New Yorker and now worked at a coffee shop in town.

I was sure I had met people just like him before: restless, in need of a change, and noting the intricacy of the tattoos, I figured he probably didn’t mind standing out.

But then something remarkable happened. He told me his story.

“So,” I finally said nearing the end of our three hour dinner, “did you work at a coffee shop in New York as well?” 

He laughed. “No, I was a business lawyer.”

He stopped there, so for some brief moments we just sat quietly. I assumed he was laid off and just needed a job somewhere. But I asked more about his story.

Why did you move to St. Louis? 

Almost instantly, his eyes filled with tears. The emotion rolled down his cheeks as he explained that he moved away from New York in order to take care of his sick brother. He quit his job and moved across the country in order to help his dying brother.

Not exactly the story I gave him.

The pain was evident, but he continued on: My brother recently passed away. His face, his voice, and his tone all painted a picture of a tight bond that was pulled apart too quickly.

He explained how difficult it was to watch his brother go through painful treatments and not be able to help him; he wanted to endure something long and difficult in order to empathize with his brother, so he decided on  tattoos that covered his upper body, all pictures representing their life together. The body art took thirty-six total hours to endure.

I was now the one with tear-filled eyes. Oh, how I empathized with this man as I had been watching my own sister face cancer and the torments of chemo and radiation.

I looked at him as he talked for several more minutes, and suddenly I saw him in a very different way. Physically, he looked exactly the same as he did when the evening began, but now I had heard his story.

We all have one. And maybe, just maybe, if we’re willing to slow down and listen, we might even find that someone has a story similar to our own. And when we hear these stories, the world curiously turns into a smaller place. After all, isn’t this what Jesus did for us?  He shared HIS story so that we can have our own.

I hope to catch my neighbor on another walk sometime soon. More than likely, he has story that needs to be heard.