Recently
I began compiling photos from my family’s three years in South America and inserting
them among my written stories about those years. (If you missed my blog post,
click on And then I remembered the weevils that lived in that flour.)
I’ve
used one of my favorite snapshots in speaking engagements for decades, but …
Why did
it never occur to me?
Why had
I never noticed?
When I
recognized it a few days ago, it jarred me.
I had
always used the snapshot to tell about waves of culture shock that struck,
tsunami-like, on my first day at that remote mission center.
The day
I refused to unpack.
The day
I plotted to run away from that place—the day I realized I could walk all the way home to Washington
State—walk, mind you, through
Central America, Mexico, California, and Oregon.
The day
that, in the midst of my meltdown, I was standing like a statue in the kitchen,
feet cemented to the floor for who knows how
long, when—see that little rascal holding the snake? That’s Glenny Gardner.
At the height of my insanity, Glenny darted into my kitchen, planted his two feet in front of mine, lifted his hands within inches of my nose, and with an enormous grin, hollered, “Ya wanna see a boa constrictor?!?!”
At the height of my insanity, Glenny darted into my kitchen, planted his two feet in front of mine, lifted his hands within inches of my nose, and with an enormous grin, hollered, “Ya wanna see a boa constrictor?!?!”
In my
fragile condition, I glared down into his freckled, sweaty, beaming little face
and—when I could finally suck in some air—I bellowed, “No! Get out!” pointing toward the door.
I’ll
never forget Glenny’s shock. His glowing face dropped, he caught his breath,
turned, and sprinted in the direction I pointed.
Instantly
I realized I’d made a big mistake. The kid just wanted to welcome me to my new
home with the coolest thing he could imagine.
I felt
horrible. To make amends, I grabbed my camera and dashed out the door behind
him. “Wait, Glenny, let me take your picture!”
So
there you have it, the story I tell about my first day on the mission field. It’s
funny now, but on that day, it was not. (And just so you know, I did not run
away. That, too, is a story for another day.)
And
this is where Rabbi Lawrence Kushner’s quote comes in:
“Sometimes you
think a story is completed
and all wrapped up.
But then, decades
later, something happens
and you realize
that it’s not done yet,
it’s still in
process.”
(Invisible Lines of Connection: Sacred Stories of the Ordinary)
I’d
like to paraphrase his words for memoirists: Sometimes you think a memoir is completed and wrapped up. But
then, decades later, something happens and you realize it’s not done yet.
Exactly.
Decades later, something has happened and I realize my story is not done yet.
Here’s
what occurred to me in recent days: That
snapshot foreshadows stories that made ongoing international news—events that
touched our family and friends. Events that changed many lives, forever.
That picture is begging me to tell additional stories, much
bigger stories.
C’mon
back on Saturday. I’ll tell you what caught my attention and what I’m doing
about it.
Between
now and then, look over your photos.
Perhaps you, too, will find clues within them that shout, “Your story is not
done yet.”
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