A favorite picture book of mine is titled You Are Special by Max Lucado. I read it to my children when they were little. It's the story of Punchinello, a little wooden doll, who lives in a village. The people of this village give one another stars or dots based on good or bad things about each other.
It's not a lot different than 'likes' and 'hearts' on social media.
In fact, I suppose it's the very same.
Anyway, I could never get through it without a tear trickling down my cheek. I didn't cry over the dots that Punchinello received. I cried when he went to Eli, his Creator, who told him none of those things mattered.
I cried because it's such a darn relief to know that the dots that other people give us, the dots we give ourselves, even the stars we think we have, simply do not matter in light of how our Creator feels about us.
To quote from Disney's Beauty and the Beast, it's a tale as old as time. We are born with a desire to know our worth. We can choose the worldly way, working and striving to measure up to standards that are impossible.
Or we can choose God's ways, resting in His presence and allowing Him to fill in that gap.
The story we tell about our lives reflects who we are allowing to author our lives. I've thought about this a lot over the last three years.
When we first moved back to Lexington I would say to people who asked, "We're staying with Mom and Dad til we're on our feet." Mainly because "Lee is changing careers and we don't know what the heck we're doing" seemed like it would raise more questions and who has time for that in the canned good aisle?
There were many times, though, that I told myself we didn't know what we were doing. That we had completely screwed everything up. When that happened I found myself reliving every major decision from our past. I walked away from those memories convinced we had made the wrong choice. This would land me in a funk.
Neither story was completely true or false, but one way left me standing upright and the other left me wallowing in regret.
I'm not suggesting that we gloss over our struggles and pain. When we were in the worst of it, months into our new journey, I had no problem telling people that we were really having a Hard Time of it. Our Hard Time lasted much longer than I had anticipated. In fact, our Hard Time looked a lot like each of us coming slightly unravelled.
Except Liam. He was pretty great. Minus sleeping with us forever.
You know I'm a fan of sharing struggles. I think it's important. I also think how we frame those struggles is important. Playing victim to life in my story isn't going to do me any favors. Of course, putting myself on top all of the time is just as dangerous.
If I create a narrative of never-struggling, always-achieving my brain and my body won't be copacetic. They'll be confused because that's not anyone's reality.
We can reflect on our history without ruminating on regrets. We can take the time to think where God has used us in other people's lives, how He has shaped our lives through other people, and figure out how we can best move forward. Our story is part of something greater than us.
Our story, our narrative, our personal history - whatever you want to call it, is our thread that anchors us to God. So when it feels like you're unraveling you can pick a strand up and follow it to our Redeemer. He'll get you going again.
Our story is for us.
We have nothing to prove, only purpose to fulfill. Our purpose doesn't need to be big and shiny and garner lots of attention. Our purpose generally involves loving others. The dots and stars of this world don't mean a thing.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
Not ever.
Be brave, misfits, and tell your story true.
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