Tell me a story.
Those words have accompanied our family’s bunk-bed, bed-time rituals for years. By now, the hero of the nightly saga goes without saying: It’s my son, Levi, who is all normal-boy angles and activities, until evil rears its proverbial head. And then, then, Levi transforms into the ultimate super-hero, L.D.A., whose powers include the shock-hold and flying. Right on time, with the whole world hanging in the balance, an earth-shaking battle between good and evil rages, concludes, and then sleep may ensue.
If I have spun a fine enough yarn.
If not, I get the two-syllabled, “Mah-ahm!” – promptly followed by a critique: “That story made no sense.” Usually, I have trespassed in small ways that are, nevertheless, deeply offensive to nine year old boys. Sometimes I have upset the apple cart by allowing evil to triumph. Sometimes I have mis-matched characters and super-powers. For whatever reason, the story I’m telling is less than stellar.
And it has me thinking.
What kind of story am I telling with my life?
What would it take to tell a better one?
For starters, as a Christ follower, I have to remember daily that I’m not the author of my own story. Jesus is. I’m just the girl who shouldn’t have a sane hair left on her head, but, because Christ specializes in plucking up lost causes and re-writing their stories, I do.
Also, I don’t have to be the hero of my own story. Jesus does. I’m just the girl who won’t let go of His hand as He pulls me through this thing called life.
When conflict rises and evil speaks, I don’t have to rely on my own wit or brawn to face them. I don’t have much anyway, but I know Someone Who has both, and more, in spades.
And when the storms come and I venture out in them sans umbrella, I know there is a Savior who is my covering, more sheltering than the sky itself.
I want to tell a better Story with my life.
And, for me, it starts by remembering Who, ultimately, holds the pen.
Because the Story Matters,