Our guest speaker in church last weekend spoke about stories. About how each of us has one and what we do with them. About the impact our stories have on others. And how we influence the stories of others. It was the type of message that resonates and sticks with you; prodding you to examine how you view your own story. And how your actions feed or starve the stories of others.
It wasn’t my intention to write this week’s blog about stories. But God decided (as He so often does) it was what He wanted me to share. And I know because of what He showed me in the hours following.
I went to McDonalds to kill time (and perhaps to get my Caramel Macchiato extra shot of expresso fix) before I had to pick up my husband from a trail run. I sat down and saw a father and his two children. The son may have been 3 or 4; the daughter 2 or 3. Sweet, well-behaved children. Entertaining themselves while their father stared at his phone. They were talking to each other; sliding around on the bench, and every few seconds, looking to him. As he looked at his phone.
I ate my lunch and read my Bible for 40 minutes. This entire time, he only looked up long enough to see if their food was ready, and when it was delivered to the table, to hand it out and then clean it up. The only words I heard him utter were utilitarian. “Here’s your milk.” “You can take your fries with you.”
The three of them sat in silence, only interrupted by the sweet daughter, “Daddy, can I have a paper towel?” And then they left. They sat five feet from me, and I never saw the father meaningfully engage his children. He couldn’t take his eyes off his phone long enough to let them know how important they are to him. Because I am sure they are.
From the depths of my soul, I wanted to say to him, “Your children will be grown before you know it. Your phone isn’t going anywhere. Talk to them. Laugh with them. Make them your priority.” But instead, I just prayed for him and those sweet babies.
I’d give anything to sit across from my daughter at that age again. To recapture the magic of those moments. And while I love the adult that she’s become, I miss the little girl sometimes.
Parenting is hard. I don’t know what his story was that day. But actions leave an imprint on our children’s lives. Every decision we make as parents has a consequence. Every moment is fleeting. Every opportunity the chance to create memories that will remain long after our children are grown, and we are gone.
As I watched them leave, my heart ached. Because in those 40 minutes, a story had been written. A story that could have unfolded so differently. It is my hope that this was an isolated moment in time. That other daddy/kid outings are filled with laughter and conversations. So that the story these sweet babies carry is one of a father whose whole heart belongs to them. And that on this morning, his story just veered off track.
I thought of my own story. Remembering those times when I was too busy to help a friend. In too much of a hurry to ask if someone was okay because they might need something from me. Too stressed to speak lovingly to my family; expecting them to understand my cutting tone wasn’t meant for them.
How many times did my behavior, my actions, my choices leave a negative impression on someone else’s story? How many opportunities did I selfishly claim for myself that might have changed the trajectory of someone’s day? How often was I so distracted that I didn’t see God prodding me to be His hands and feet in the here and now?
The truth is that in writing our own story, we contribute to the stories of others. Like it or not. How we live, react, respond not only defines our journey, but serves as an example to those around us. Many of whom we don’t even realize are watching.
Watching, just like that little boy and girl at McDonalds. Looking to their father to show them that they are the heart of his story.
Leaving that morning, I thanked God that He is a Father who loves us with a reckless, overwhelming, incomprehensible love. A Father who stops everything to dance when we dance and cry when we cry. To comfort and carry us. To direct and discipline us. A Father so focused on keeping us close, He relinquished his Son, so we never have to doubt the depth and breadth of His commitment to us.
I want to write a better story. I want to contribute light and love to the stories of others. But most of all, I want my Father to see Himself when He writes my final chapter.
What a great word! Dovetails so nicely with the question that I’ve asked each in my immediate family during the past year as well as non-family: If someone were to write a book about your life, what would you want it to say?