TELL THE STORY OF ME

My youngest son, Timothy has a new favorite phrase – “Tell the story of me.” I admit it seems self-absorbed, but what is childhood for if you can not have a few years of minimal responsibility and maximum discovery. He seems to use it during those moments at home when our home is filled with visitors, discussion is flowing, a few laughs are shared, and he wants to be included.

Our home is one of those with no DSTV and all we get is Rwanda Television plus the latest DVD we pick up. Our family’s Kinyarwanda skills are minimal and we are unable to keep up with radio conversations. I usually pick up a newspaper every couple of days and try to read it in the chaos of our household, but it’s a communication device difficult to share with a community.

Our family relies on the oldest of all family entertainments – visitors and conversation to rescue us from Kigali’s boredom. Our home is modern, but the entertainment form has not changed in thousands of years of human history. At the end of the day we gather for a meal, process, laugh, and retell the stories of our history. Today our stories focus upon the events of school, work, and hopefully the rumors of life that wish well of neighbors, friends, and family. Occasionally, we may even discuss and debate the biggest issues of life – politics and religion. We usually only share those discussions with those who have earned our trust – those who will keep a confidence even if we disagree.

There must be something in our humanity that loves “the story of me.” Humanity has kept the tradition throughout our existence. Our earliest written records are “the stories of me.” - A simple painting in a cave retelling the story of a hunt or a scrap of parched paper documenting a harvest. Before we had cookers and refrigerators we gathered around a cooking fire in the evening or a water hole in the heat of the midday. There with our dearest ones we laughed at our failings, celebrated our success, learned the lessons of the day, and hoped for the future of our community. Occasionally, we would ask those tough questions. What about resources, leadership, and organizational structure? Politics was born. Next we would ask - What about our environment? Where did it ultimately come from? What about our human nature? What is our purpose? Why do we exist? Where are we going? Religion was born at the watering hole. (We theologians need to remember our theology is much more relevant at the watering holes of life than in the seminaries of our study.)

From those simple conversations the great disciplines of human study began – political science, leadership, religion, history, psychology, sociology, and anthropology. No matter how many studies we did, theories we proposed, books we wrote, or debates we held we never would be able to fully comprehend “the story of me.”

One of my worries about our Kigali pace and practice is that the “story of me” has been forgotten. However, it is not just Kigali’s struggle. It is the struggle of urban growth worldwide. Middle class estates are one of the great killers of the “story of me.” We drive to and from work with no time for either a discussion as we walk or as we share a commute. Our children live their separate lives in school. When they are free they either study so rigorously or play with so much abandon that there is no time for a family discussion. We return to our home behind a gate and use our household staff to screen visitors. Instead of impromptu face to face discussions we hide behind e-mail, mobile phones, and our calendar schedule. Though we become more sophisticated and theoretically productive, I believe we become lonely, shallow, uninvolved, and devoid of community.

My guess is that if we continue the journey in which we don’t share a cup of tea and conversation with our family and friends our academic pursuits will die as will our community’s creativity. Without both thoughtful dialogue and problem solving being part of our very nature we become self-absorbed copy cats. I believe business thrives in an environment of trusted community and creativity. We dare not lose our human infatuation with “the story of me.”

So my proposal is simply this; take some time this week to listen to another’s story of life. Ask some questions. Learn all you can. Then remember the marks of grace upon your own life. Share your story with friends. Admit your failings. Celebrate your victories. Grief over injustice and the loss you suffered. In the process scratch some marks on your cave (or at least write down key lessons and events.) Keep pictures, letters, and reminders. Make sure you children know these details. It is from these “stories of me” that they will find themselves and when life faces them with what appears to be an insurmountable problem chart a new path. Never forget ‘the story of me.”

Now just in case you are dieing of curiosity – here is my son Timothy’s “story of me.” Five years ago, our family had some friends considering adoption. My wife, Jana took them to an orphanage overseen by a family friend. While there our family friend told us she had someone to introduce us to and his name was Timothy. One look into his eyes and Jana was forever in love. A short time later he came home and since then he has been our son. Some families have surprise pregnancies. We had a surprise adoption.

For Timothy, “the story of me” is not finished. Instead, it causes us all to ponder. Why did the Lord choose to bless our home with him? What special purpose does God have in Timothy’s life? What will this boy become? I can not answer the questions for Timothy. I can only retell his story, shape his character for a few years, and put the questions before him that he will need to answer as a grown man.

“The story of me” is the story of us all.

Come run with me.