A Teacher's Story

I would like to repost this story.  Some of you may have heard it many times before.  However, it is one of the best stories I have ever heard about teaching.

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A Teacher's Story

There is a story many years ago of an elementary teacher.
Her name was Mrs. Thompson.
And as she stood in front of her 5th grade
class on the very first day of school, she told
the children a lie. Like most teachers, she looked at her
students and said that she loved them all the same. But that
was impossible, because there in the front row, slumped in
his seat, was a little boy named Teddy.

Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed
that he didn't play well with the other children, that his
clothes were messy and that he constantly needed a bath.
And Teddy could be unpleasant. It got to the point where
Mrs. Thompson would actually take delight in marking his
papers with a broad red pen, making bold X's and then putting
a big "F" at the top of his papers.


At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught,
she was required to review each child's past records
and she put Teddy's off until last.
However, when she reviewed his file,
she was in for a surprise.


Teddy's first grade teacher wrote,
"Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh.
He does his work neatly and has good
manners...he is a joy to be around."

His second grade teacher wrote,
"Teddy is an excellent student,
well-liked by his classmates, but he is troubled
because his mother has a terminal illness and life
at home must be a struggle."


His third grade teacher wrote,
"His mother's death has been hard on him.
He tries to do his best but his father doesn't
show much interest and his home life will soon affect
him if some steps aren't taken."


Teddy's fourth grade teacher wrote,
"Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't show much interest in school.
He doesn't have many friends and sometimes sleeps in class."


By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was
ashamed of herself. She felt even worse when her students
brought her Christmas presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons
and bright paper, except for Teddy's.
His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy,
brown paper that he got from a grocery bag.
Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle
of the other presents. Some of the children started to
laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the
stones missing and a bottle that was one quarter full of perfume.
She stifled the children's laughter when she exclaimed
how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some
of the perfume on her wrist.


Teddy stayed after school that day just long
enough to say, "Mrs. Thompson, today you
smelled just like my Mom used to."
After the children left she cried for at least an hour.


On that very day, she quit teaching
reading, and writing, and arithmetic.
Instead, she began to teach children.

Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy.
As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive.
The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded.
By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest
children in the the class and, despite her lie that she would love
all the children same, Teddy became one of her "teacher's pets."


A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy,
telling her that she was still the best teacher he
ever had in his whole life.



Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy.
He then wrote that he had finished high school,
second in his class, and she was still the best teacher
he ever had in his whole life.


Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while
things had been tough at times, he'd stayed in school,
had stuck with it, and would soon graduate from college
with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson that she was
still the best and favorite teacher he ever had in his whole life.


Then four more years passed and yet another letter came.
This time he explained that after he got his bachelor's degree,
he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she
was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had. But now
his name was a little longer. The letter was signed,
Theodore F. Stollard, M.D.


The story doesn't end there.
You see, there was yet another letter that spring.
Teddy said he'd met this girl and was going to be married.
He explained that his father had died a couple
of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might
agree to sit in the place at the wedding that was usually
reserved for the mother of the groom.


Of course, Mrs. Thompson, did. And guess what?
She wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing.
And she made sure she was wearing the perfume
that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last
Christmas together.


They hugged each other,
and Teddy whispered in Mrs. Thompson's ear,
"Thank you, Mrs. Thompson, for believing in me.
Thank you so much for making me feel important
and showing me that I could make
a difference."

Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back.
She said, "Teddy, you have it all wrong.
You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference.
I didn't know how to teach until I met you."

The Power of the Written Word.

The Power of the Written Word.

It used to be that correspondence was the only form of long-distance communication of any length.   Over 3000 years the little marks made on paper had meaning and power.  Historically, writing was used by governments, religious leaders, philosophers and other wise "men."  The rulers of any civilization knew that to have the power to write, and to read, meant that you had the power to influence, inspire, create, infuse, en-passion,  entrall, convert, confuse, and educate.  Therefore, most rulers made sure that those in power were the only ones who had the skill to read and write.

The earliest writing was almost certainly religious in nature.  Words stood for the many aspects and beliefs about creation.  The word became more than the word; it became THE WORD.  There was so much power in some words that they were written down only once, and buried or burned thereafter.  To look upon even the written symbol for such a word was forbidden.  In the land of UR, and the culture of the Sumerians, words were the magic of life; instructions in how to bring into existence what was needed to survive.  Truly, the word was THE WORD.

In other cultures, the standard oral tradition gave way to written commandments, proclamations, instructions, rules, and laws.  The campfire stories, myths and legends were frozen in their telling by words.  Multi-generational cultures became possible, more so, because of words.  The teachings could be passed down now, with more accuracy to greater numbers of people.  Such works were revered, as they are even today.  (The Magna Carta, the Declaration of Independence, the Code of Hammurabi.)

The ancient alchemists used written words as sources of power, in their incantations.  The makers of shields, swords, armor, and other forms of physical protection wove words of power into their works.   The Heraldry of nobles almost always included a family motto, phrase, word, or passage.  For many families, it became a generational rallying cry and mission.  It raised kingdoms and sometimes tore them down.

In late antique Babylonia (third–seventh centuries A.D.), for example, countless ceramic bowls were inscribed with prayers, curses and healing rituals written in the Jewish-Aramaic script.  The spiraling, cramped inscriptions of the bowls often encircled drawings of bound demons and other evil spirits. Writing, even in this late period, was still invested with the power to bring prayers and curses to life.

Words were used by many to protect, guard, warn and punish.  Curse inscriptions often protected tombs, monuments, graves, burial grounds, and other places for the dead.  A name could be written down on a piece of parchment, as a signal for that person to be killed.  Secret societies used the written word, hidden in codecs, to enforce the judgment or law of those societies. 

Words also meant the difference between life and death.

In ancient Israel, the simple act of erasing an author’s name was tantamount to wiping out a person’s very life.  Judaism and Christianity use the imagery of the Book of Life.  The Book of Life is the tome in which the names of every person who was created are recorded.  In Ezekiel 4, where one of the six heavenly envoys "who had the scribe's inkhorn upon his loins" is told to mark the righteous for life, while the remainder of the inhabitants of Jerusalem are doomed. The Psalmist likewise speaks of the Book of Life in which only the names of the righteous are written "and from which the unrighteous are blotted out". Even the tears of men are recorded in this Book of God. "Every one that shall be found written in the book . . . shall awake to everlasting life".

A deep and personal and basic need is fulfilled in the written word.  Famous works of literature were born out of the need to record, to bear witness to, to describe reality as it was experienced by the writers throughout history.

For many, it was their only outlet, their only way to express themselves.  Remember the works that came from such prisoners as Martin Luther King, Don Quixote, Paul (of the early Christian Church), Mahatma Gandhi, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Ezra Pound, and Nelson Mandela. 

Words on a page show us the moment and time, the vision and belief of the author at the time of that writing.  Diaries, letters and other correspondence have helped to fill in the lives of John Adams, Abraham Lincoln, Julius Caesar, Martin Luther, Anne Frank, Albert Einstein, and many others.


Words have power.   This really is the last word!

Mysticism - Weaving Understanding

What happens when you try to explain experiences that are mystical?


I have grown up, steeped in logic and reason; yet there are things that happened to me that were not logical and nor reasonable.  They had no facts attached.  At the time, I did not have the language to describe them.  Therefore, I used what language I had.  The problem is, that when you explain something in words that do not describe it, the memory or experience looses some of it's detail and import.  Instead of illuminating the experience, the language has made it a dim reflection of the actual event.  Then when I tried to explain it to others, they were even more in the dark than I was.

For example, I always knew of the presence of God in my life.   However, I only had the language I learned in church to explain this.  Many conversations were like the following:

"Hey pastor John, I know that God is in this church!"

"Yes, he is!"  
(Yah, but Pastor John; that is not what I mean!)


"That solo was great.  I really felt it all over!"
"Yes, she sang well!"
(Frustration.  Again not what I meant!)


I learned over time that if I wanted to feel understood, I would have to weave a story, a background before commenting on my spiritual experiences.  I had to pull the audience in, and enchant them in a way, get them into the mindset of the mystical before I felt they would understand.

So, how do you get someone into the Mystical frame of mind?

First, I appeal to their senses.  This is really because all of my experiences can be related to one of the five senses, and possibly more.

I had a wonderful experience looking at a tree.  (Stay with me!)

The morning sun was just peering over the horizon; casting light and shadow into the branches of this old, majestic oak tree.   Where the yellow light hit the bark, a thousand fissures, the patterns of many ridges and valleys were thrown into stark contrast.  The branches and leaves were surrounded with a glow from the sun's back-light.  Each branch was like a child of the tree; growing out of the trunk.  Yet, each branch was unique.  They grew; finding their own place in the sun.  No branch was ever so greedy for light, that it blocked out its brother branch.  The leaves were as the children of the branches.  They grew from the same source, but lived in the sun, unprotected by the dense bark of their parents.  They reveled in the wind, rain, and light, without the protection of the rest of the tree.  Yet, in this image was the realization that the wind, rain, light, sun, seasons were only to be truly experienced as the naked leaf does.  The core needs protection; it needs deep roots.  The branches of our lives need the core as a foundation, a growing place, a source.  The leaves need to be free to breathe, to rustle, and even to fall if the rest of the tree is to live. 

In one moment of illumination I saw my life and the lives of all as that tree.  It became a symbol, a living representation of life. 

This happened in about 10 seconds and took me the last 15 minutes to put into words. It was a mystical experience, because 90% of it is still unexplainable.  The feelings and perceptions are still impossible to put into words.

The Long Road.....And the Deluded Camp Counselor

The burden was just too much....

It started out as a simple Bible Study at a summer camp.  The children were not listening.  Even my thought-provoking and open-ended questions seemed to have no effect.  They were BORED, and not the least hesitant to show it.  These were the same children who, an hour before, were hooting and hollering at breakfast.  You could not calm them down.  Now, blank faces, empty stares, not a peep.

Looking around, I saw the large cross that was at the campfire site.  It was made out of 6-8" logs, tied and bolted together to form a cross some 8 feet high and 4 foot across.  It was made to be removable, used for processions, etc.  An idea started forming.  (Now keep in mind that many of my ideas are just not very good or wise ones....you'll see what I mean later in the story!)

A cross; talking about the walk toward Golgotha.  Add them together and I finally had something I could try.

So, I summed up the stuff I was talking about, went over and picked up this cross and hoisted it on my shoulder.  I remember thinking that this thing was a bit heavy, and a bit uncomfortable.  (I mean, I can carry the cross just like everyone else, just don't make it too difficult God!)

I started walking with this thing of logs on my shoulders.  My intention was to only walk to the edge of the field (some 350 yards) and then stop and talk with them about it.  No so!   I got to the edge of the field, and the kids were goofing off and just being kids.  So...here I go a bit further carrying this thing.

Before I knew it, I was at the entrance to the camp.   This was the stopping point, right?  I was sweating and getting mighty uncomfortable.  The logs were sawing a groove in my shoulder at this point.   Yet, I looked at the kids and saw that they thought this was great fun, watching their camp counselor carrying this thing around.  They just didn't get the point.  (Actually, it was I that wasn't getting the point, as you will see.)

Out the entrance of the camp, onto hard road-top.  I thought that the many bumps and dips in the field were bad, but the road gave a continuous vibration through the logs.  This was worse than the occational nudge or dip.  This was like being massaged with a splintered tree, but not so comfortable.  I had to start switching shoulders fairly frequently.   My legs told my brain that in no uncertain terms, this punishment would have to stop soon.  My arms were not too far behind.

So here the intrepid (stupid) camp counselor and his motley bunch of campers (oh ya, a pastor was there with us too.) were going up and down on a road that led further and further away from the camp. 

I knew there was a cemetary where we would sometimes bring the kids to do Bible Study, but that sucker was a good 1 1/2 miles on this hilly and unforgiving road.  Surely, one of the kids would get it, and say, with humilty and a deep appreciation for the moment, "No Steve, let me take that cross from you and carry it for a while!"   Ha!  No such thing.  I was determined that I would rather kill myself slowly than tell them that they should offer to take the cross from me.  (Yes, I was deluded.)

After about 1/2 mile, up a hill and down one, my arms and legs were very sore.   However, the pain of the cross on my shoulder far surpassed these small pains.  When I switched shoulders, I would touch the place where the log was and almost expected to see blood seep through my t-shirt.   It was raw.  It was hurting.  (Come on Guys, someone take this cross from me, or tell me to stop!)

Another 1/2 mile and my eyes could no longer focus correctly.  Everything was kind of blurred.  My nose was not constantly running.  Lines of snot were forming down my face, and a persistent need to sniffle accompanied me.

I had to start focusing on each step at that point.  When you are walking there is a transfer of balance between one foot and the other.  Usually it is automatic.  However, each time I took pressure off my back foot, I felt a tinge of uncertainty, of lack of balance, and the real possibility of falling with this heavy cross on top of me.  Soon, nothing existed outside of me, except for the motion, balance, feeling of each step being placed in front of the other.

Very quickly, the sight of my own feet blurred too.  Now, I had to go by feel alone.  I couldn't focus on the road.  I didn't know if I was stepping on road, on gravel, on whatever.  I tried to raise my head up, and found my shoulder muscles had locked with my head in the down position.  My mind was disengaged though.  I didn't think anything about it at this point.  Just an observation.  "Gosh, I can't move my head up.  Isn't that interesting?"

The last hill before the cemetery came up.  Twinges and what felt like electric shocks went through my shoulders and arm now.  Things in my skeleton felt like they were shifting in ways that they were not meant to shift.  Even my hearing started playing tricks on me now.  Sounds would be clear, then suddenly sound like they were underwater or distant, then clear up again.  There was also an edge of blackness at the very corner of my vision, streaked with afterimages and exploding phosphors. 

I have a fairly good memory, but the next part I had to piece together from the pastor and some of the campers.  I really don't have a memory until I woke up later....

Apparently,  this procession arrived at the cemetery, or right outside of it, before I collapsed.  The pastor told me later that there was a groan, and I went down.  Then, a couple of the campers took the cross off of me (though they could have done this long before I collapsed!) and I was partially dragged into the cemetary and put on a concrete bench.

I remember finding myself on that bench.   I was crying.  It couldn't be helped.  There was just a great sense of relief that I didn't have to carry that ******* cross anymore.   Things like words, and making sense with them, weren't available to me yet.  Luckily, the pastor jumped in and started talking about the walk to Gogotha, what Jesus went through, etc.  I didn't catch most of it.  I was still trying to find meaning in concepts like breathing, sitting, seeing and hearing again.  I know at some point that I gave my 2 cents worth into the conversation, but I have not idea what I said.

Somehow, word got back to camp that I was doing this stupid thing, and one of the maintenance trucks pulled in and I got a ride back to the camp, the cross in the back of the truck. 

The aftermath:

The kids didn't get the point.   I didn't get the point that the kids wouldn't get the point.  Subtlety is lost on Junior High kids.  Wisdom is lost on a (this) camp counselor.

After laying down in the staff cabin for about two hours, the director called me into his office.  He asked me to explain the reasoning behind carrying a cross, out of the camp, to the cemetary, taking more time in Bible Study that the campers had (they were very late for lunch), and putting a counselor (me) out of commission for an afternoon (which had to be covered by other staff!)

I thought about it, and tried to explain my reasoning, only then realizing that that reasoning was faulty.  He had good points, and I had no points.  After telling me to never, ever, ever do that again, or else...I was let go to sleep some more before dinner.

The next day, the kids paid more attention during Bible Study.  It was nothing that I did to change that.  I knew later that the pastor asked them to pay more attention and to be more involved.

The pastor did thank me for a wonderful week (though I have no idea if that extra twinkle in his eyes was because he had witnessed a grown man make a fool of himself to make a stupid point in Bible Study, or not.

The moral is:  don't carry a cross just to make a point!

A Spiritual Adjustment

I have gone to a chiropractor for years.

You know what happens.  You lay down, and the doctor starts applying pressure in the strangest places.  You hear and feel internal adjustments happening.  Pops, cracks, joints moving, the breaking sound of the chiropractic table, giving way.  You know something is happening, but are a little worried that these sounds sound more dire than healthy.  At the end, you stand up straight and feel a bit taller, a bit more inline than when you came in.

Another rule of thumb is that the longer you wait between adjustments, the more pops, clicks, cracks, and bangs seem to happen.  More pressure is required to adjust; more techniques to align the spine are used, just because we skipped a couple of appointments!

What about spiritual adjustments?

I know that I have had several that the cracks and pops were loud and painful.  In readjusting my spirit, the more out of alignment I am, the greater the time, effort, and change is required to get inline again.

The first thing is that, like the chiropractor, God has to get me to lay down, to stop, to hold still.  Now God can do anything, but I have to be at the point that I actually am still, quiet, at rest, at peace.  This is the tricky part.  Yet, when I am in this state, alignment can begin.

Much like at the doctor's office, I am told or shown that my parts don't quiet work together correctly.  One thing is stronger, longer, shorter than the other and they just are not getting along.  This is sometimes a shock. 

"Really, my left leg is longer than my right?  No one told me!" 
"My lower spine is not supported!" 

Yet, when these facts are presented to me about my spiritual life, they hold no less astonishment, denial, repression, nor ignorance on my part.

"My ego is how big?"
"I want to be comfortable more than I want to be happy?"
"I try to please people more than I try to be loving to them?  No, that's not me!!!"

Then come the adjustments.

Trust me; deflating the ego is always a painful process.  It involves a re-adjustment of how I see myself, and how I wish to be in relation to my family, friends, church, community, nation and world. 

Living life to the fullest also is quite a process.  I know that my living takes place on the razor's edge of discomfort.  Being uncomfortable means that things need to change.  Yet, I love comfort.  I like not changing.  So, sometimes pressure needs to be applied to shift how I approach life.  The crack and pain in the neck is sometimes the only way to be able to turn my head and go in a different direction.

What is really nice is that if I go through these adjustments often, it only takes a tap, a small shift, a brief push to get me back into alignment.  Sometimes, a word, a smile, a story, a movie is enough for my spirit to align with God again.

I guess my whole life is really a quest to become better adjusted.

What Is A Christian Mystic?

What Is A Christian Mystic?

So, what is a mystic? A mystic, quite simply, is a lover of God who pursues the beloved actively and deeply. 

In fact, a mystic is a person who feels the presence of the Mystery to the core and when that presence is not felt feels as keen and painful a loss as a lover whose mate is somewhere across the world.

To travel in the world of the Christian mystic, one must discard concepts such as ego, pride and spiritual materialism in favor of adopting a sense of humility and hopeful expectation. 

It is to begin a great and stirring adventure that moves the soul from this life to the next. To quote Ursula King,

"The story of the Christian mystics is one of an all-consuming, passionate love affair between human beings and God. It speaks of the yearning, a burning desire for the contemplation and presence of the divine below area mystics seek participation in divine life, communion and union with God. This yearning is candle by the fire of divine love itself, which moves the mystics in their search and leads him, often arduous journeys, to discover and proclaimed the all-encompassing love of God for humankind."

One of the hallmarks of a mystic is her or his ability to inspire and transform others by their very lives, deeds and words. In reality, the Christian Mystic is simply returning to the very essence of the Christian experience at its earliest stage.

Jesus spent his life pointing beyond himself toward the loving presence which he called "Abba", which doesn't mean Father as the strict, judgmental figure of the past, but as a loving term, the nearest of which we have in English is "Daddy" or "Poppa" as a term of closeness and endearment.

Indeed, Jesus' message that the Presence was not out there somewhere, giving some sort of cosmic report card on his subjects. That Presence, according to Jesus, is here, now, available to all without restriction or need of intermediary. It is a realization and a teaching, revolutionary, that reaches across time. Not only did he spend his life demonstrating that, it was this very teaching that cost him his life. 

With all this in mind, what is the most basic understanding of what it is to be a Christian Mystic?

For that, we can search in a variety of places. First, in the tradition of the teachings of Jesus can be found within the changes and interpolations of the New Testament. Secondly, within the great body of spiritual writings by such figures as St. John of the Cross, Meister Eckhart, Theresa of Avila, Thomas A Kempis, George Fox and others from Protestant and Catholic and Orthodox backgrounds. Third, there are contemporary Christians from a variety of denominations and backgrounds to explore. Finally, and above all things, there is the personal experience, guided by the authentic words of Jesus and the writings of those who followed.

All of these sources exist as road maps, guide posts, ways to check ourselves as we make the journey of the Christian mystic. We should be thankful that others have blazed a trail before us, a the journey is based upon our own yearnings coupled with the mysterious grace of God.

For now, it is enough to understand that a "Christian" mystic is a person who finds the teachings, life and event of Jesus of Nazareth to present, for them, the clearest way to grow into a spiritual relationship with God. This is certainly not to make a claim that God's Presence is based on nationalism or accident of birth in this world in this or that region. Put simply, God speaks to the "many flocks" Jesus spoke of in a language and a way they can understand. 

What a Christian Mystic is suggesting is that in the midst different cultures and approaches, the symbols within our particular culture provides the tools necessary they find to make this journey. The Dalai Lama, when asked about converting from this religion to that, states clearly it is in one's best interest to remain within the familiar territory of their own upbringing, culture and understanding.

Briefly, it would be misleading to simply assume that the Christ Path is easy. To embrace the mystic tradition within Christianity as a Christian is to invite misunderstanding, abuse, and, to a great extent, persecution. Yet, no journey is without difficulty and, in this case, one has the encouragement of Paul, who stated, "Not I, but Christ who lives in me."

Ponder, then, these basic starting points:

What you see is not all there is to life.

There is that which is uncreated, which pervades everything, but remains outside the reach of human knowledge and understanding. This can be called "The Myster."

The intellect can entertain the concept of God, but not grasp God.

God cannot be reached by logic or captured by thought. Instead, one can only approach by love steeped in humble expectation of God's grace.

The Christian mystic is not known by his or her words, but by deeds and actions.

The qualities that mark the Christian mystic include devotion, being humble and without spiritual pride, refraining from judgment of his or her brother or sister and trusting that God speaks to the heart of each person in a way of God's choosing.

A Christian mystic is transformed and transforming.

According to the great mystics of Christianity, the transformation is a continual, ongoing process, an unfolding of the soul. It is not accomplished in one step, as in "being saved" after which a person can sit back and pronounce judgments on others. One's "work" has only just begun. It continues in humble service to those in need, in constant prayer and in the realization of God's Presence..

A Christian mystic seeks an experiential closeness to that Presence. A check-list of beliefs is certainly not enough to know God..

-Brian Robertson

Listen to People's Stories

They are attentive...They look into your eyes...you are the only focus of their time....they wait patiently....no judging...no prejudices against you....just accepting and receptive to what you have to say!

People so need to tell the stories within them.   There is a fundamental need to feel like we are important enough for others to listen to us.  We have hopes and dreams, comedies and dramas and tragedies all inside that we need to share with others.  

Why do we share our stories?  What good does it do us?

Sharing our stories tells other people about where we came from and where we are going.

My grandfather used to spend hours talking about his life during The Depression.  He held so many jobs, including handy-man, roller-skate rink manager, coal miner, gold prospector, construction worker, brick-layer, that it is hard to recall all of them.

In the telling of these stories I learned about perseverance, and endurance.  I learned about the hope he had, the motivation to survive, to earn money, even during the worst of times.  From these stories, he showed me what kind of life he had and how he faced it.  I could see that he would face future challenges just like he had faced the ones in the past.


Sharing our stories tells ourselves who we are and who we may be in the future.

When I get to tell my stories to people, I listen back and find that I discover things about myself that I never knew before.  The stories of summer camp; being a camper, a staff and finally program director, are ones that revealed that when I focus on other people, that is when my gifts and talents, my patience and love are the strongest.  Looking at my future, I know that being of some service to others is where I will rediscover myself.

Sometimes our stories reveal to us areas where we need to grow.  We can share our stories of failure or tragedy and learn from them.  Then in the future, we can choose to do something else, to take another path.  Thus, we learn wisdom from our own stories.


Sharing our stories allows other people to feel comfortable sharing their stories with us.

It is a strange thing that what we put out we get back.  If we are open and honest with others; sharing with them our stories, then they are much more likely to be open and honest with us.   Not always, but often.  

There are times when I meet someone so very open that my only response to them is to be more open.   They are taking a risk in sharing who they are with me.  I begin to feel more comfortable sharing that with them.

Sharing our stories creates bonds.

There is an effort underway, sponsored by the Smithsonian Institute, to capture all the stories of the soldiers still alive from the World Wars, Korea and Vietnam.  Many of these people who have shared and helped to fill this audible archive, have left for contemporary soldiers, a reminder and a source of those that have gone before.  There are many stories of soldiers listening to these older stories, and finding solace in them.  What they have gone through or what they are going through, others have experienced similar lives. 

The whole point of the Oral Tradition for passing down cultural and historical information is that it creates a bond from the old to the young, from what was to what is; and keeps traditions, beliefs, and values alive.

Sharing our stories heals.

We are not passing down information only when we tell stories.   We are often caught back up in the emotion, the thinking, the spirit of the moment that story occurred.  Sometimes, we can get to a point of having a cathartic moment; a clearing of our emotional landscape.  Other times, our emotion sparks similar emotions in others. 

Stories of cancer survivors can inspire because they communicate one simple thing:  Hope.  

Stories of the underdogs, finally triumphing, can inspire others to persevere.  These stories share the power of redemption.  We can all identify with the underdog and be inspired that anything is possible.

Stories of love have inspired us to love even greater.  Whenever we hear of the power of love, the lengths to which people have gone to share it, the self-sacrifice, the glory, the chaos, everything, we see something for which to strive, to participate in, to show forth to others.

Take time to listen to people's stories.   Make it a priority!