the Stories We Tell

and the Ones that We Let Shape Us

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Waiting is a weakness of mine, not a strength.

It’s not so much the anticipation that’s hard to bear, but the thoughts I find myself thinking — the stories I tell. These are narratives — the undercurrents of beliefs and the remnants of my history that can be destructive. Sometimes, explicitly. Other times, silently. Both, in one way or the other — deadly. It’s tempting to call them lies outright, but after decades of familiarity, I don’t think that’s fair.

To me, they’re nothing but rational. They’re not so much the result of a figment of my imagination but rather years of carefully gathered evidence. They are thoughts like:

Good things won’t ever come my way.

I am hard to like, even harder to love.

My imperfections are enough to disqualify and discredit me.

These and others like them, tumble around my head like damp shoes in a dryer, landing with loud thud after thud. They’re noisy. On what seems like a long cycle.

Impossible to ignore. I used to try. I’ve learned not to.

We forget this simple truth: our stories become more or less powerful depending on how we tell them. And, “the stories we tell about ourselves reveal ourselves, construct ourselves, and sustain ourselves through time.” So, while I used to want to minimize these painful thoughts — I now greet them knowing who they are and why they’re here. I don’t usher them out the door, slamming it behind me. Instead, I make a space for them to be cared for at the hub of my heart I’ve surrendered to the Lord.

Years ago, I would have told you I was my worst enemy. I couldn’t quite grasp why I couldn't stop thinking and believing the way I did — which inevitably shaped the way I would respond to a variety of circumstances. Why couldn’t I get out of my own way?

I was determined to sabotage and destroy myself. And I did. I replaced authenticity with perfectionism. I exchanged grace for self-flagellation. I gave up joy for cynicism.

I’d stare the goodness of God in the face and choose blindness over praise.

I like what author

Lisa Olivera

says about this, "Our stories — the experiences we've had and beliefs we've formed, and the narratives we've developed in response to those experiences and beliefs — affect us in countless ways. They affect our sense of self and our relationships. They affect the choices we make and how we take care of ourselves. They affect the lens through which we view the world and the ways we show up in it." I'd come to see the effect of my personal narrative, and I didn't like it.

The tendency I have, that perhaps many of us do, is to get frustrated. We shake ourselves with anger and attempt to force ourselves to embrace the truth with abusive and malignant vigor. It doesn’t work. These parts of ours that are hurting and broken need more than our contempt. They need our compassion. They’re simply survivors seeking shelter and an indefinite respite from a storm that only seems to rage on.

I’d also thought that to be transformed; I’d have to subject myself to self-criticism. After all, I should be able to believe in the goodness of God. I should be able to see that I am loved. I should be able not just to know, but believe, that my imperfections aren’t the authoritative guide. But, ‘should’ was only ever an invitation to shame. It made me feel less than and inherently wrong — when frankly, I was only ever human.

For me, these narratives weren’t born from a place of self-hatred but of self-protection. When faced with a collision, our best move is to brace for impact. We end up with fewer injuries that way. So, these things that I’d come to believe helped me adjust to rejection and disappointment. I felt more in control when I expected the worst — prepared, even. And, since facing even the possibility of a good thing felt like an accident waiting to happen — I would shrink. I would tense. I would disconnect — from myself and others. This seemed to be the safest thing to do. Then, anyways.

What was helpful then — necessary even — isn’t so much anymore.

The storm has passed. Even if our bodies don’t quite know it yet.

Ignorance doesn’t make us the enemy.

We’re flesh and blood with shattered hearts who desperately need to be led to the Cross and be shepherded to safety. To be told that there’s a new way of living. To be shown that we’ve been made secure in the strength of inviolable and holy hands.

And, while our stories can’t be rewritten, they can be retold through restored and redeemed eyes. We don't have to minimize our weakness for God's glory to ring true. Where it's dark, His light only shines brighter. Where there’s despair, only truth can deliver hope. And yet, both require our full participation.

To yield what we’d rather ignore.

Liberation lives here — its counterpart, peace.

May we choose to tell our stories through the eyes of a faithful, gracious, and tender God. May we readily receive the gift Christ has given us — to live in a posture of possibility instead of fear. And, may we be willing to place the harshest parts of our hearts and stories in arms that only know to receive them with mercy and kindness.

Tabitha Panariso

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And, then — just a few other things:

— an artist and song I’ve only just discovered and have come to love

— a podcast that both encouraged and convicted me

Jesus doesn’t minimize our pain or scoff at our praise and neither must we.

— in sum, and as a reminder for the week ahead

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Or, leave a comment below. I’d love to hear what stories you’ve believed that God is working to rewrite. This is a safe place — one where you’ll be welcomed as you are.

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