Your Story

When you were a kid, did anyone in authority ever ask you, “So what’s your story?”

If they did, you were probably in trouble — or about to be. If you told the story well, though, you might just be spared.

Personally I was never daring enough to make up a story in order to avert what I later came to call “the wrath of Ralph.”

Ralph was my grandfather, and he helped raise me and my brother and sister. Our dad was generally on the road during the week with his work, and our mom was already in heaven. Ralph and Lena were my dad’s parents, and they took over the parenting duties much of the time.

Grandma was sweetness and patience in human form. She was also mostly deaf, though she wore a hearing aid that helped a little. Communication was not an issue — she knew our very thoughts, it seemed.

Grandpa was… unique. Not tall, but tough. Not mean, but you knew when he meant it. Polite to every female I ever saw him interact with, excepting his own wife when he thought he was getting away with it, and he truly respected her.

I was just at the right age to be guided by Ralph. My high school buddies all loved him, partly because he occasionally told off-color jokes and made statements intended to shock our Midwestern sensibilities. And they did. He died the summer after we graduated from high school, and several of my friends still talk about him.

But the “wrath of Ralph” was only in my imagination. It grew there from the consequences of the few times I crossed a line or failed to come clean. Here is one of those.

Innocent fun

One Halloween my buddy Lloyd and I decided it would be great fun to TP the trees in the yard of someone — probably his girlfriend — and so we did.

It was a masterful piece of work. We should have taken pictures.

And, as only stealthy teens like us could do, we got away with it. Or so we thought.

When I got home 30 minutes later and walked in the back door, there sat Ralph. It was past his bed time, and he had apparently been sleeping. But, like Lazarus, had been raised and was clearly waiting for me.

Jesus hadn’t raised him, the police had.

The people in the house we decorated had seen us and identified us. They had not confronted us, they had decided to teach us a lesson. So they called the police. The police called Ralph. They didn’t even have to deputize him, just tell him what had happened.

Yes, Lloyd and I cleaned up that yard the next morning, and I don’t think I ever tried to pull a Halloween prank again.

Thanks, Ralph. I still love you and everything you did for our family.

Impact

In just a few words, you now know one story — completely true — that is part of my story. I have hundreds of those, and so do you. When I put them all together, retell them and reflect on them, in some amazing way they help mold me.

I am not my stories, but they impact how I live out who I am. The same is true for you.

Now it may be that one of your stories is much bigger than the others. It might have been a traumatic incident, or it might have been an amazing blessing. It is your story, so you get to interpret it for you. As you share your story, others may interpret it differently.

The important thing, I think, is for you to know your story and, when and if it is appropriate to do so, share it.

Sharing stories

Just last night, as I’m writing, I sat at a dinner table with eight other people. As we ate and talked, it was very clear that everyone had a story.

One man had come through a two-decade battle with a debilitating illness, another was a doctor who was now cancer free, helped by a relatively new immunotherapy. I knew most of the people, and I knew some of their stories.

No one was trying to top anyone else. It wasn’t a competition, it was a sharing that revealed and healed. It happened naturally, not by design. I’m only telling you this because I know that if you had been at that table, you might have shared just as easily. Because you have a story.

When we hosted Do Good Talks earlier this month, one of our speakers was Tracy Hanson. She shared what might be called “her story,” although 30 minutes wasn’t enough time to tell it all.

In fact she tells her story far more completely in her book Finding My Course: A professional athlete’s journey through pain to purpose. You can buy your very own copy on Amazon. It is powerful, and, as a blurb on the cover says, “It will tear at your heart.”

Why would anyone tell their story of pain? To help others with their pain. At least that is why Tracy wrote Finding My Course. Her passion is to help others — especially other athletes — live with more passion, purpose, and hope.

Why would you tell your story, especially the hard parts?

I don’t recommend you do that to gain sympathy, although you might get some. You do it because sharing your story in some way can help other people navigate stories they are still struggling with. It might even help them with a story they have yet to live.

Doing good through stories

One of the best ways to communicate with your friends, your family, or even your employees or employer, is through stories.

We can connect through stories in amazing ways. We can teach through stories. We can influence through stories and of course even entertain through stories.

So, what’s your story? Share it for good.

Do good. It’s in you.