Sit with me and tell me once again
Of the story that's been told us
Of the power that will hold us
Of the beauty, of the beauty
Why it matters
...Like a single cup of water
How it matters
I need to hear the stories. Over and over again. My daughter needs to hear my stories. Over and over again. And it matters, so very much.
The first time my daughter really cried deeply over her friend's death was the night after the viewing. Up until that point she had been focused, like me, on what she needed to do and say, where she needed to be and when, to get through and to help her friends get through. But Friday evening she crept to my napping bedside to give me a kiss. And then she paused and just leaned against me. I asked her, "Are you okay?" "No," came the quiet response; followed by sobs.
I hauled her into bed beside me and held her while she sobbed. I stroked her hair and murmured quiet nothings to her until she ran out of tears. Then we sat in silence for a long while. Over the past few days she'd already asked all the questions, and I'd already given the few answers I had and agreed that we possessed the same unanswered ones.
"Tell me some stories, Momma. Tell me about when I was little and when brother was little, and about Paba, and you and Auntie. Tell me the funny things I used to do and about when I got in trouble and all the stories. You know, the ones I like."
And so I did. I repeated all her favorites. How as a baby she'd crawl so fast over to the kitty's drinking water and splash and giggle before we could get her to stop. How she once accidentally ran away with the dog. How her brother drew a pair of glasses onto our cat with permanent marker, and how he used a whole tube of waterproof mascara painting his arms brown. I told her about Paba and his runaway little red wagon and how he saved himself by mowing down a white picket fence. I told her about how my sister and I created an outdoor kitchen of brick and leftover chimney liner and how we baked our clay creatures until they cracked and Paba suggested we find a safer, more industrious way to spend our time.
And finally, my daughter slept.
We need to hear the stories. Stories of our family. Stories of happiness and comfort and joy. Stories that bring us hope and a future. Over and over again. We need to hear the story to remind us of who we are, where we came from, where we are going, and how so very loved we are. Have you heard the story?
In the beginning was
The Story of God,
The Story was
with God
The Story was God.
He was in the beginning with God.
All things were made through Him,
and without Him
nothing
was made
that was made.
In Him, The Story, was life
and the Life was the light of men.
And The Story became flesh
Dwelt among us.
We beheld
His glory
The glory
as of the only begotten of the Father
The Story
The Story
Full of Grace
and Truth.
~ adapted from John 1:1-4, 14
