Telling Stories

“Are you telling me a story?” the father asked his five-year-old son. He meant “Are you lying to me?” While I grew up hearing the word story used that way occasionally, as a young pastor often preaching on stories, I wanted to insist that fiction isn’t necessarily a lie. I wanted to insist on the value of telling our own stories to learn from them where we might be going. I said nothing.

I’ve been thinking this week about the stories we tell ourselves and hearing the accusation “Are you telling me a story?” with new ears. Many of the stories we tell ourselves about reality are indeed false. When we believe the stories we make up about reality, they become destructive of relationships and communities.

In the absence of information, we make stuff up. We don’t like standing in the discomfort of not knowing, so we start filling the information void with projected possibilities. The problem comes when we believe in and act on them as if these stories are reality.

An example: I asked a friend—at the bottom of an email reply, after giving the requested information—if we could talk this week. She hasn’t replied in four to five days. “No email is urgent!” I remember my husband insisting as I think about my lack of response. My calm, centered self says my friend is probably as tired as I’ve been this week and likely saw my request as non-urgent in the moment (true) and forgot about it, which was not a reflection on me, but on the to-do list she carried while being worn out.

My tired mind has been fascinating to watch this week as no reply comes in. Fear creeps in and starts making stuff up. “I bet you said something to make her mad.” The fear isn’t really about my friend as much as it’s about past hurts and my defensive desire to control the possibility of being hurt again. As the fear escalated on an already sleep-challenged night, it spun an awful story that ended with me not only losing the friendship but also losing community without knowing why.

I did send another email to get a reality check. I know from experience that the simplest explanation—she’s tired and forgot and it has nothing to do with me—is usually true. I confess to having some fun watching myself stand in the discomfort of not knowing. This friendship is a safe place to practice refusing to believe my own stories.

But what other stories have I told myself this week that I did believe? That I didn’t give enough space to know they were stories? What realities am I creating because someone reminds me of situations where I’ve been hurt in the past? What can I take at face value? Just because I’m afraid doesn’t mean there isn’t danger, though. Where are my fears valuable information as well as an invitation to reassure the scared child inside and behave a little more as an adult? How do I distinguish my fear stories from intuitive warnings to be wary and watch? And are those mutually exclusive?

My more centered, trusting self was right. My friend simply forgot; it wasn’t about me. Had I believed and acted on any of my stories, I’d have created a misunderstanding to clear up—the size depending on which story I chose to put my trust in instead of trusting Providence to be holding both of us. Even if she had been mad at me, checking it out would give me the opportunity to do repair work. Avoiding out of fear only makes fear and false stories take on larger proportions.

“Are you telling me a story?” has become a valuable question for reflection. Of course, when we love and reassure the wounded parts of ourselves, taking not the fear but the fearful self seriously and with compassion, we begin to heal the hurts reeling out the stories in the first place. Then we can better separate truth from fiction and act accordingly.