stories.

For as long as I can remember, I have loved stories.  The first story I can remember falling in love with was The Velveteen Rabbit.  My earliest memory of story time at night is of my mom sitting on my bed reading me the tale of the velveteen rabbit as I sat entranced by the words she read and the beautiful pictures that accompanied them on every page.  Every single night for a few years of my early childhood (seriously, ask my mom), I listened to and eventually read along with my mom as she read me the story of the velveteen rabbit.  I could quote half the book by age four, which is impressive for a book that begins by saying, "There once was a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning, he was really splendid."  For real, I did this.  And I have to be honest, the story still gets me.  I mean, the boy loved the rabbit so much that the little bunny became Real, and then because he loved the boy in return, the fairy came to save him and make him truly Real.  I get a little teary just thinking about it.

Maybe The Velveteen Rabbit doesn't get you like it gets me.  But I know that the power of story resonates with you in one way or another.  Stories captivate our hearts, our minds, and our imaginations. They help us to see the world from another perspective.

This past week I had the incredible opportunity that came up sort of spontaneously to go canoeing for four days down the Orange River (which is the border between South Africa and Namibia) with a group of high schoolers.  Most of them were from the youth group one of the churches connected to the Warehouse, but they then invited and paid for six boys from the Superstars, which is the soccer team / discipleship program run in Sweet Home Farm.  There was a last minute empty seat on the bus up, so I got to fill it with the assignment of helping to look out for the Superstars and hopefully help the two groups cross big divides together into friendship.  Kind of a big task for a last-minute add on, but hey, I wasn't complaining.  Five days in the midst of incredible beauty with space and time to think and reflect?  Absolutely worth being called Mommy for the duration of the trip (it was honestly pretty endearing, and a lovely flashback to Fischer staff team...)

As we paddled over the four days, I spent a lot of time thinking about the beauty of this river I somehow found myself journeying down.  There were mountains all around us as the current drew us along the winding path.  It wasn't until the second evening, when we climbed one of the mountains that I realized: the river has a story to tell.

I stood and stared at the incredible beauty in front of me.  The nuances of the river that had been invisible as I canoed down were now perfectly clear.  The river was going somewhere, and coming from somewhere constantly and simultaneously.  The story of the river from this perspective changed seemingly pointless bends in the river into vital chapters and twists in the narrative.  The story of the river is both timeless and ever-changing.  Water constantly moving downstream, carving a path between the mountains and through the valleys.  Not only does the river tell one big story, it tells countless small-scale stories.  Every place the water moves affects the shape of the landscape, even carving away the rock itself.

 The river has a story, and the river tells a story.

Places have stories.  Though the river is a beautiful example of story in motion, it is just one picture of thousands.  From mountains to houses to cities, every place has its own distinct and valuable story.  Places gain value when we know their stories.  The restaurant where dad proposed, the house with secret passageways for runaway slaves to hide, the bench that Wheaton students spray-paint and claim as their own every few weeks.  Places that are seen as dispensable, unlovely, and unimportant are transformed in the light of story.  A church bathroom is transformed from a standard functional facility into a sacred space chosen by a young child to meet with God. (True story, ask me about it some time...)  But knowing the story of that place allows me to see the space with different eyes.

It's easy to look at the sun setting over a river from the top of a mountain and see the beauty of that story.  It's much more difficult to stand in the midst of a physically broken space and see, beyond outer appearances into the beauty within the story.  A few weeks ago I walked around Sweet Home Farm with the girls' youth group and took pictures to go with letters they wrote to government, complaining about the broken and unfit municipal facilities in their community.  This is what we saw.

Most people would look at this photo and only see a place unfit for anyone to live.  But knowing the story of Sweet Home Farm gives me different eyes to see the beauty hidden under a thin veneer of poverty.  Stories of hope in the midst of seeming hopelessness do not negate the pain and injustice that exist in this place, but reveal beauty in spite of the pain.  These stories of hope are the stories of people. Knowing the girls' youth group, and the team in the Warehouse, and the six boys that went on the canoe trip changes how I see Sweet Home Farm.  In place of shacks and overflowing sewage drains, I see faces and stories that fill me with joy, rather than hopelessness.  In Sweet Home and across the world, people are the stories that transform places of suffering and despair into places of joy and hope.

One of my absolute favorite books that I've read since coming to South Africa is Denise Ackermann's After the Locusts.  In it, she writes letters to friends and family remembering the stories of God in the midst of a broken and disease-ridden world.  She slams home the power of story when she says, 

“I have heard stories that speak of triumph, of resistance, and of hope.  Imagine a kaleidoscope with thousands of different-coloured fragments.  As it moves, it forms patterns.  The myriads of stories of suffering and joy make up the big story of AIDS, in which each fragment is unique.  My life has been changed by knowing the stories of people living with the HIV virus.  Hearing and telling stories challenges stigmas and prejudices.” 

Denise isn't just talking about AIDS.  She's calling on humanity to see the brokenness in every individual story and every meta-story, recognize it for what it is, and then see the hope in the midst of those stories. We are called to live in a deep tension that comes from being the Church with AIDS.  Our stories must tell of the brokenness of the world and yet of the hope and triumph that is found in Christ.  The human story holds both together.  It is only in this tension that we can see true beauty if we allow one another's stories to capture our hearts, minds, and imaginations.  Through this kaleidoscope our view of the world is transformed.

People are stories.  When we listen to one another, our sight is transformed.  Life can be seen in the midst of death.  Abundance in the midst of poverty.  Unity in the midst of division.  And hope in the midst of despair.  That is the power of story.