My dad is a great storyteller. His eyes light up and his gestures animate the scenes as he walks me through interesting drama from his childhood. He provides colorful detail, interesting character impressions, and always seems to be ready for the twist at the end. He’s got plenty experiences to draw from and tell stories from times throughout his lifetime.
I recall many times when my dad would be telling a whopper of a story and others would roll their eyes at what seemed to be tall tales. I didn’t know what to think of it. Is my dad embellishing? Could it be true that I’m descended from a legacy of great people who did great things? Did my grandfather really part the Red Sea like Moses did?
Many of his stories are about his dad. My grandfather was this towering figure of wisdom and wit who ran hospitals, raised millions, and received the admiration of countless community members who knew him as Dr. Blocker. Or was he? I actually didn’t really know him. I can read the facts of his obituary online. And I have a few Polaroids of him holding me. But, the truth is I know him primarily through my dad’s stories. Was he really the local champion of Black Lives Matter (long before the term was coined) on Galveston Island? Was he really instrumental in the foundation of the the Shriner Hospital network? Did he really perform a makeshift cesarean on cat in the alley to save her life when he was only a boy? The magnificent headlines go on.
My dad is not perfect. And neither was his dad. But I’d never know that by the stories. Some might say that’s disingenuous. I say its grace. The history we live doesn’t determine the stories we tell. The stories we tell redeem the history we live.
I wish I would have gone to storytelling school with my dad when I was younger. Instead I went to public school in Richardson, TX. You can’t advance that setting without learning the scientific method. Later I studied Christian apologetics. On TV I witness endless litigation. The goal of my education? To tout the facts, to find the truth, to win the debate. Perhaps it was also to indict the human race? I think some things got hardwired into my brain in ways I didn’t realize. Ironically my dad is a lifelong scientist with multiple advanced degrees and a PhD. from an Ivy League school (U Penn). And yet the older he gets, the more facts he takes in, the stronger his faith grows and better his stories become. How is this possible?
After grade school, in my late teens and early twenties, I would tell my ‘stories.’ I provided the facts, the plot, the gist. My versions were short, consistent, and gloomy. There was a victim (often me), there was a villain (often my dad) and there was a hero (often me). I was the author, the narrator, and the producer. But, I was so caught up in my own tiny world I couldn’t see my dad’s stories, much less God’s big story.
In my work I ask men and women to tell me about a challenging experiences they overcame growing up. About 90% of these people share something about their dad.
I have the ridiculous privilege of working with leadership teams. In my initial conversation with them I ask them a simple question: “Can you describe a unique or interesting challenge growing up that shapes who you are today?” I’ve never taken notes during this time. But, I’d confidently say that 80% of those stories hinge on their relationship with their father. And the vast majority of that set are not pretty stories. They are plots of neglect and abuse and pain. It’s a chronicle of victims and villains and fueled by bitterness and regret. I hear about the fathers who are: losers, drunks, workaholics, absent, greedy, criminal, shady, unfaithful, and more. But every so often I hear a different story. It includes many of the same facts. But it’s a story of redemption. The broken pieces somehow come together to create a beautiful mosaic. I love it when the stories redeem the history.
This reminds me of a very famous father. His rap sheet? Abuse of executive powers, entrapment, adultery, conspiracy, and murder. Not pretty. His name? King David of Israel. This stories about him? Ask God.
Guess what stories God told about David’s grave errors afterwards? None. Sure the history is there. But past his broken heart (read Psalm 51) you don’t hear another word about it. He’s not known as the Adultery King. He’s not known as the Conspiracy King. He’s not known as the Murder King. God Himself calls him the “Man after God’s own heart” and challenges his son Solomon to walk in his ways. David’s name was held in honor for generations. Perhaps you’ve heard of a king in his lineage? His name is Jesus Christ. The King of the Jews.
But, then his friend Nathan confronted him. And he cried outfor mercy (Ps 51). He dealt with the consequences. He changed. Sometimes we don’t belleve this is possible. If a pastor commits adultery in my circles it’s like a Scarlet letter. People will say, “have you heard of (so-in-so)?” Others respond, “you mean the one who cheated on his wife and got fired?” Then I’ll ask, “when did this happen?” Someone guesses, “Oh…about 15 years ago.” I’m thinking, “what in the @#%$ are we talking about!?!” The guy makes a bad choice that any of us could make and we are tossing it around years later like it’s the juiciest scandal.
Jesus is the ultimate storyteller. He takes our history, ourfacts, our reality…and He weaves the broken pieces into a beautiful play. And Jesus helps us re-tell our stories. That’s the cool thing about stories. History can’t change. Stories can. The fish we caught can get a little bigger each time as the majesty of our memories grow and grow. We remember sitting by our fathers and listening to them teach us how to bait the hook. Maybe it was when he took you to the donut store on Saturday mornings? Or maybe just riding in the car on the way to see Star Wars for the first time. Stories can grow in our hearts as we see history through a different lens.
Here’s a fact. If you gave the same set of facts to 10 different people they are going to tell some slightly different stories. Perhaps many of them will be similar. But, it’s likely you will get a wide variety of angles. Ask four people who witness a car accident from 4 angles. Ask 2 siblings who are 2 years apart about their experience growing up at home. Ask Fox News and CNN. We’d like to think that the facts tell the story. But, as the book Crucial Conversations so brilliantly describes, our facts go through a filter before they become a story.
And our filters can change and grow and transform. Recently I took in an amazing story that demonstrated this. I watched a movie called I Can Only Imagine. It’s about songwriter Bart Millard. He grows up with a very abusive father. After leaving home for some time he comes back to find that his dad has changed. But when hisd dad asks for forgiveness, Bart can’t bring himself to give it. History has hard wired his brain.
Later, circumstances lead him to recognize the bitterness in his heart. He forgives his father and spends his final days with him dying from cancer. At one point his father asks him, “what do you call it when you take a bunch of broken pieces and make something withit?” His son replies, “redemption.” Bart then writes a song and spreads the story of his dad.
I love to see the theme of redemption in movies. This reminds me of a great movie called “The Invention of Lying” starring Ricky Gervais. Now, Gervais is commonly known for his racy jokes at the Oscars. But, this is a deep movie that strikes to the heart of much deeper issues. The premise of the movie is that everyone in the world cannot tell a lie. What is also evident from the beginning is that the world also cannot trust, hope, or love. Most are caught in a loop of deep despair. Mark, the main character played by Gervais, meets his neighbor in the elevator. When asked what he’s doing that night his neighbor explains that he might kill himself. When he is with his mother at her deathbed she asks the nursing staff what will happen after she dies. They tell her she will go to a place of “nothingness.” The list goes on as people openly tell the “facts.”
The story takes a huge twist when Mark tells his first lie. Initially his motives are suspect as he lies to his bank to get more money or to his boss to get his job back. But, then he shifts almost seamlessly to tell, not lies, but truths that no one has ever heard. He tells his mother that there is a place after death. He tells his suicidal friend there is hope. He tells the love of his life (played by Jennifer Garner) to look beyond the ‘facts’ after as she describes how he is ‘chubby with a stub nose.” She strains and then says plainly, “I like the way you see the world. I want to see it though your eyes.” You’re smart. You’re kind. You’re the sweetest man I’ve ever met. You are… You are definitely the most-interesting person I know. And you are fun to be with. And you see the world in a way that nobody else sees the world, and I like the way you see the world. You’re my best friend. You make me happier than anyone I’ve ever known. And I love you.”
The love we have for others is fueled by our stories. And this is even true for those who were abusive, have died, and cannot make amends directly. Sound far fetched and idealistic? Ask Walt Disney. The climactic scene in “Saving Mr. Banks” master storytelling. Here’s what Walt says as he discusses the story of stories with Ms Travers the author of Marry Poppins.
“My dad, Elias Disney, he owned a newspaper delivery route there. Thousand papers. Twice daily. Morning and evening edition. Elias, he was a tough businessman. A save- a-penny anywhere you can type of fella so he wouldn’t employ any delivery boys, he just used me and my big brother Roy. I was eight then– eight years old.”
“Like I said, those winters were harsh and old Elias didn’t believe in new shoes until the old ones were worn right through…”
“…And the cold and the wet would be seeping through the shoes and the skin would be raw and peeling from our faces– and sometimes I’d find myself sunk down in the snow, waking up, cuz I must’ve passed out for a moment– I dunno. Then school, too cold to figure out an equation. And back into the snow so by the time we got home it’d be just getting dark, and every part of you would sting like crazy as it slowly came back to life in the warmth. My mother would feed us dinner and then it’d be time to go out again for the evening edition…”
‘Best be quick Walt, best be quick or poppa’s gonna show you the buckle end again boy.’
“…Now, I don’t tell you all this to make you sad Mrs Travers, I don’t. I love my life – it’s a miracle. And I loved my daddy, boy I loved him. But, there isn’t a day goes by where I don’t think of that little boy in the snow and old Elias with his fist and strap and I’m just so tired– I’m tired of remembering it that way. Aren’t you tired Mrs Travers? We all have our tales but don’t you want to find a way to finish the story? Let it all go and have a life that isn’t dictated by a past?”
“…It’s not the children she comes to save. It’s their father…”
“…It’s your father…Travers Goff.”
“…Give her to me, Mrs Travers. Trust me with your precious Mary Poppins. I won’t disappoint you. I swear that every time a person goes into a movie house – from Leicester to St Louis, they will see George Banks being saved. They will love him and his kids, they will weep for his cares, and wring their hands when he loses his job. And when he flies that kite, oh! They will rejoice, they will sing. In every movie house, all over the world, in the eyes and the hearts of my kids, and other kids and their mothers and fathers for generations to come, George Banks will be honoured. George Banks will be redeemed. George Banks and all he stands for will be saved…”
“…Maybe not in life, but in imagination. Because that’s what we storytellers do. We restore order with imagination. We instill hope again and again and again. Trust me, Mrs Travers. Let me prove it to you. I give you my word….”
Walt Disney said it better than I ever could. The stories we tell redeem the history we live. I want to be like my dad. No, I don’t want to do everything he great thing he did or make every mistake he made. Heck, I’ve already made my own, bigger mistakes already. I want to tell stories like he told. When our hearts are bitter and cold we just recount history. When our hearts are full of grace we tell stories. What’s your history? What’s your story?
Does our history determine our story? I don’t think so. I think the stories we tell redeem the history we lived. And they set up future generations to tell better stories as well.