My Love Of A Good Story

Bettyann, Amy, Sarah, Brayden and I all enjoyed viewing the film, The Man Who Created Christmas and giving some reflections these past couple of weeks it struck me of a story I read some time ago about Frank Boreham's childhood and how storytelling became a huge part of his life. Just as Frank and his nine siblings sat around with their mother around the radio on Sunday evening listening to the "The Hassock Hour," I’m reminded of all those Saturday mornings when Ann and I went to the basement to shine our Sunday shoes with our dad, and listen to the “Buster Brown” adventure program.  I don’t think, to this day, I’ve ever heard rivalling adventurous stories as when I was a child. As a child I was always spell bound at the stories at the feet of grandpa, grandma, and dad, let alone the captive tales of Buster Brown, the Lone Ranger, or Masterpiece Hour. I have memories of many favorite stories but I do relish the story Frank says his mother told him.  It was a story she said had happened to her when she was seventeen.

As the story goes, she had made a plan with her cousin, Kitty, to spend the afternoon at Canterbury Cathedral. She said, neither one of them had been before and that was all the two teens could talk about for some time. What an adventure it would be. But on the day, hour and place they had agreed upon, Kitty was no where to be found. After an hour and a half, Mrs. Boreham relayed, "I was just about to turn away, dejected and disgusted, when an elderly gentleman approached me." He seemed to notice she had been waiting for someone, and proceeded to ask if she would like a tour. "I am deeply attached to the place," the man said, "and happen to know something of its wonderful story."

This turned out to be quite true. As they moved from point to point, the stories of and with the cathedral became alive. The man recreated in words the arrival of Augustine in the sixth century, the first archbishop of Canterbury. He described the pilgrims of Chaucher's Canterbury Tales, and the Danes' disfiguring attack on the noble building. Beside the shrine of Thomas Becket, the grim martyrdom of 1170 came to mind as never before. Mrs. Boreham had discovered adventure after all: "Concerning every pillar and arch, every cranny and crevice, my eloquent guide had some thrilling tale to tell."

I believe, more than ever, all the stories I’ve paid attention too (and some I gave no thought, at the time) along with those I’ve read, over the years, has unbelievably impacted and influenced my life. Over the past twenty years, I’ve come to the conclusion that my influence as a storyteller is equally profound. I give immense  praise and credit to all the hospice patients and staff with whom shared their stories with me as their spiritual care provider. Those stories are vividly stored in loving memory. But I'm more sensitive to this now that I'm in the middle of Advent. F.W. Boreham long cited his mother's masterful storytelling as the tool God chose to most shape his own writing and imagination. Her storytelling made visible the wonders of God at work. "The Hassock Hour" brought past and future, story and faith to life for Boreham—much in the way the guided tour brought Canterbury Cathedral to life for his mother, through the eyes of one who knew well the story, both learned to see.  

Viewing the early church a bit more intently this week, I see it full of similar testimonies. As Philip ran beside the chariot of the Ethiopian official, he heard a fragment of a story. The official had been in Jerusalem worshipping at the temple, and on his way home he was reading from the book of Isaiah. Hearing this, Philip asked the man if he understood what he was reading. "How can I," he replied, "unless someone explains it to me?" and he invited Philip into the chariot. Then Philip began with that very passage of Scripture and told him the rest of the story. The one whom Isaiah foretold, the one who would be "led like a sheep to the slaughter," was crucified in Jerusalem and resurrected to life. Seeing water, the man stopped the chariot and asked Philip to baptize him: "I believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God," he said decidedly.

Why, I ask myself, is storytelling so profound?  Simply, it’s because I’m not only living in but living a story.  Mrs. Boreham's encounter at Canterbury invited her to live life among a great history of belief and story. In that cathedral, she was simply one among countless pilgrims to stand in awe before the Lord. Likewise, the Ethiopian official found himself a part of the same grand story, invited to life as it reached far beyond the words of Isaiah himself—from Eden to Nazareth to Ethiopia. Aren’t the stories I tell a constant reminder of the fact that life is first and foremost a story?

I’m reminded that there is first a storyteller. When at long last the cathedral tour was finished and they were heading out the great doors, Mrs. Boreham's guide suggested they exchange cards. She thanked him sincerely for his time and courtesy and tucked the card in her pocket. On the train ride home, she pulled it out. It simply read: Charles Dickens. Wow!  Yes, even though I understand my live as a story, how often do I fully realize the storyteller in my midst? 

Father, God, I'm going to continue to tell the story of Christmas because there is a story to tell?  Amen