Lately, our students and I have been reading non-fiction. Our main text offers a sad gritty and often shocking look into the dynamics of a family. The kids keep asking if the situations in the story are going to get worse; we are only 70 pages in. Yeah, the text is true, chances are…
Currently, in my academic research and in my personal reflection I am wondering about tensioned stories: the stories that are difficult to share, the stories that we do not (are told not to) share, and/or the stories that we spend many moments learning to or trying to live alongside.
I am wondering about the value of and the need for sharing these tensioned stories. What changes within us when we do share these stories? Who changes? Does sharing our tensioned stories mean others too might better understand us?
Often kids, heck, people, share snippets of these tensioned stories through body language, through reflection and even on social networking sites. What interests me is why there is shame in sharing? Why is there a need for public sharing? However, I’ve no desire to debate the ills of sharing our tensioned stories on a global stage. How about this: what if we did share our tensioned stories on a global stage?
What if we named our tensions? What if we listened to each other?
What if our tensioned stories were honoured? What if someday these retold tensioned stories became stories of love, of trust, of connection, and of faith.
I am learning to live alongside my tensioned stories. For me, loss continues to be an exhausting epic, a lived narrative that tells and retells itself. I am learning to live alongside my tensioned stories.
Stories, all stories, have value…
Saturday, I was unusually harsh, and I am seldom harsh.
I am learning to understand because I share my story.