The black carry-on still sits on the top shelf of the hallway closet, where it’d been laying dormant – in hibernation – for nearly a year. I’d soon be reaching for it in my usual last ditch effort to do what others would call “packing,” or as I like to call it, “throwing stuff in a bag.” I stare at my half folded/half crumpled-up-in-the-basket laundry, which was done on Monday (today is Friday), wondering if I need to wash anything else for the trip…before the trip… Would my kids need clothes washed? Does my husband have enough socks? … And then, as the mom mind tends to do, thoughts began to bombard and overtake all sense of sanity.
What if something happens? What if I’m delayed? Will my husband know where the bills and checkbook are? Do I need to leave my passwords somewhere? What about lunch? I know for a fact my littlest does NOT like the school lunch on Wednesday. Should I prepare something in advance? Is the house clean up enough? Do I need to drop off the giveaways that have been sitting on the outside table for two weeks now? When are the library books due? Do I need to shop for food? What about the laundry? It goes on and on.
Finally, I tame the racing thoughts in my head because I know my husband is a VERY capable man, and this is not our first rodeo.
But there is always that one lingering thought in my mind anytime I’m away from my family: What if something happens to me? And while I am comforted knowing full well that God would take care of my family in any circumstance, I can’t help but wonder if I have all my things in order. Just in case.
And before I could feel the sense of overwhelm creeping through my already anxious mind, my eyes settle upon a small pewter Tasmanian Devil figurine standing – albeit a little wobbly – atop my desk hutch, bathed in the light of the small lamp suited perfectly for this corner of my writing nook.
This two and a half inch tall figurine of a cartoon character, who is known to be a wild, crazy, and carnivorous beast, bears the resemblance, instead, of a scholar as he is holding up a book of poetry while decked out in a tweed jacket, cane, and newsboy cap. As random as this may appear on the desk of an aspiring Christian author, this simple yet very complex figurine carries a story dear to me. A story which bleeds the foundations of my adulthood, and of working in a trendy retail store in the heart of Waikiki. The story of a wild, crazy, and carnivorous young girl, hidden beneath the appearance of a studious college student, searching for her identity and a place of belonging in this unpredictable world. This small, seemingly insignificant figurine is filled with memories of that time, and as I continuously weed through mementos of my past, this one remains.
But what I came to realize during my anxiety-filled, pre-trip worry fest is that no one else knows the significance of this small Taz figurine that sometimes stands above me, and sometimes beside me, as I write my words. No one elseknows what stories lie beneath his cool, sophisticated, intellectual outward appearance. And as I look at my collection of sentiments bottled up in little trinkets, I wonder if the stories they carry would be lost the day the world lost me.
As with most sentimental things we keep, these “things” matter to me, but not so much to anyone else. I mean, these stories are small, and would anyone really care? But then I recall my husband’s experience with sifting through piles and piles of his grandfather’s things when his grandfather passed away. My husband couldn’t understand why his grandfather kept so. many. things. Insignificant things. My heart overcame with sadness. I’m sure there were stories in there somewhere, but we would never know them because they had passed with him. I hope that somewhere along the way, he had shared those stories with someone he loved.
My friends, we are ALL storytellers whether we know it or not. Some of us tell stories in books and on paper, while others are blessed orators, sharing well-loved stories over and over to all who will listen. Yet others of us create beautiful works of art meant to capture the stories written on our hearts in a single piece. But all too often I witness the death of a story – lost in memento, lost in indecipherable scribbles on a torn sheet of paper hidden in a box, tucked away in a closet corner, lost in a tiny, pewter figurine covered in dust on an old writing desk.
My thoughts move to the movie Coco, and while I don’t want to ruin the plot line for those of you who have not yet seen it (and you really should – it’s an amazing movie!), there is a great message of remembering things past and what happens to those stories that are forgotten.
If my little Taz is important for me to hang onto all these years, then his story – my story – is important enough to share, especially with those whom I am closest to.
This week, my fellow storytellers, I challenge you to find a collectible, a priceless artifact, a keeper of sentiment from your past, and tell its story. Tell your story. Perhaps you may be called to write a tale of adventure and discovery either scribed on a piece of paper as a beginning to your very first book, or shared on an Instagram post to your friends around the world. Or maybe you’ll gather your family around in a cozy spot on the couch, and talk about that little memento that’s been sitting quietly in a box for so many years. Or your moment might simply be over afternoon snacks, after your children have shared about their day, and it’s time to share about yours. Why not simply start by saying, “Have I ever told you about this?”
Your stories matter.
And while we love to hold them close and dear to our hearts, most often than not, they are better shared with the ones we love.
So as I prepare to fly over the vast Pacific Ocean and across the contiguous 48, I’m also preparing a little story to share with my children over grilled cheese sandwiches later this afternoon. One that involves a little Taz figurine decked out in a tweed sport coat.
