it’s not all good, but some of it is even better than good

I guess that’s what blogs are really about anyway, huh?

Stories, I mean.

Sharing yours, specifically.

And I would go so far as to say that everybody wants to be known in some way. And no, I don’t mean being famous. I mean everybody wants to have someone else glimpse into their soul and be told that we’re not lacking.

But we are.

I mean, it’s true that we need God. I know this intimately, feel it in the slow and steady reacquainting with life that I do every morning lately. I open my eyes, and though I don’t recognize much, I do see that this is Life. Just like my first performance was. Just like letting my grandaddy squeeze my hand till it hurt but not wanting to say a word because I knew he found some comfort in it; knew that he liked to look at me and see a reminder of the wife he had loved. Just like my wedding day and the photos that remind me still that it happened.

And just like all the parts I don’t remember so well; the parties and polite conversations and the times I decided to roll over and fall asleep when, really, I could have made some sort of effort that produced more than simply another full 8 hours of rest.

It’s all life and it all matters and when we tell people about it that helps too.

So when I found myself at a story sharing with a new friend tonight, it made sense. Of course there are people brave enough to walk up to that bare stage, grab a mic, and talk.

About themselves.

In front of so many strangers.

With the only caveat being that the story is true, the details real.

And though I insisted to my friend that I could never do that, that the very idea was somewhat terrifying, isn’t that the way we live our lives? No, there aren’t usually microphones involved and yes, we’re generally given more than five minutes at any given time to open up, but don’t the things we choose to do, the conversations we cobble together with each other, and the dreams we cradle and wake up to in the dead of night–isn’t all of that the story that we are telling?

And don’t we all want someone to tell us that it’s a good story?

And as we’re weaving this tapestry sometimes it feels like we’ve been stuck on that same darn color for a very long time. We wonder what exactly God had in mind. What kind of artist uses so very much orange or blue or red or however it is you paint your pain anyway?

And it’s not till later–till we see the burning sun so bright and warm and smack in the center of it all, a light that you didn’t know possible, that you couldn’t have even dreamt had you known how to try–that you finally see the reason for all that yellow.

Or all that orange.

Or all that whatever it is that hurts so much right now.

And God, it’s a good reason. And no it doesn’t make sense because when does a mystery ever do that, but you cannot help but see the brilliance, be warmed by the glow that is all around you, and then be taken by surprise as you start do something so simple.

Because it’s then you finally say thank you, and though you’ve said it so many times before, this time it’s like your heart and your head and your mouth have all finally attended the same parties and church and schools and they totally agree on the issue that life is good.

Because it is.