The Power of Story – Truth in Parable
I love stories.
More specifically, I love the way
that the background and depth required of good storytelling often unconsciously
showcases truth, even truth that the author may not intend to be the focus of
the story. Often, when reading or watching a good story, a moment will display
truth so forcefully to me that I am startled. Like a lightning flash in a dark
night, the truth, once hidden, is now suddenly brightly lit and obvious.
Meghan and I went to see Pixar’s Finding Dory earlier in the summer.
Pixar films are always on our list to see in theater since they have such high
quality stories. We are such fans that we used a musical theme from a Pixar
movie in our wedding! Since we did not see the film on it’s opening weekend, I
was aware that the film would deal with issues related to parenting a child
with memory problems. I thought this would not be very impactful to me. Yet, as
I watched the parents diligently work to help their child (Dory) develop skills
that would enable her to function in spite of her handicap in the world, I was
unsettled. Something about this seemed familiar. I brushed it off, and went
back to enjoying the adventure Dory and the other fish were in. The moment when Dory is swept away and loses
contact with her parents was a dark moment, but it didn’t resonate beyond the
movie for me.
At the end of the film, Dory is
once again separated from everyone she knows (a call back to the beginning of
the film) and she has no other support…no friends to remind her who she is and
where she is trying to go. At that moment, she goes back to the reflexive
skills taught to her by her parents, so long ago…and those skills lead her to a
line of shells on the sea floor, which she follows, as her parents encouraged
Dory to do as a baby. That line of shells turns out to be one of a multitude of
shell lines painstakingly laid over the years Dory has been lost.
The storyteller shows, in a
simple image of shell lines spiraling out from their home, the depth of the
effort Dory’s parents spent for her. They dedicated their lives to instilling
reflexes in her that would lead her home…and when she was swept away, they
spent the rest of their lives building paths home from every direction.
Lightning flash.
I suddenly understood the
connection. Meghan and I have spent the last two years building into our
wonderful little boy. Worrying about his safety, making sure he has the right
skills, hoping that we would do the right things to help him be healthy, smart,
wise, and that the evil and darkness in this world wouldn’t take him from us. Building
paths in his mind that will bring him home to where he is called to go. Just
like Dory’s parents, we deal with the fear of the consequences of our actions
as parents every day. The effects of ‘failure’ may not be as dramatic as in the
film, but they are no less real or painful even to parents of children without
the challenges Dory faced. Yet I willingly embrace this responsibility because
I love that wonderful bundle of toddler joy. Being his parent fills me with so
much joy that I WANT to subject myself to that fear.
This spring, we found out that we
were having a second child. We were excited since we have already experienced
the amazing experience of welcoming new life into the world and watching him
grow. We began planning for the new arrival, and dreaming of who our child
might become. We went to our first ultrasound eager to get our first glimpse of
this new life. The technician warmed up the equipment and started listening for
the baby. If you’ve ever had the privilege of being present for an ultrasound,
you know that the event is often full of noise. The technician chatters away,
and your wife chatters back, eager to share her joy at the new life growing
inside her. Our appointment though, was different. It was quiet, almost silent.
No chatter. No heartbeat. Just
the slow, crushing realization of just how terrible silence can be. Our child
was no longer alive. We buried our child on Mothers Day.
When a loved one dies, we often
grieve by remembering them in life. Their mannerisms, the good times we spent
with them, the way they laughed. When your child dies before birth, there is
only silence. An emptiness that is suddenly oppressive. There are no memories,
nothing to latch onto but the dashed hopes of what might have been.
I have been carrying that
emptiness with me from that moment until seeing Finding Dory. When I saw those shell paths, I realized that while
my son will require those paths to be built in his mind and in his world…my other
child no longer needs them. She is already home. It is no longer my burden to
serve her in that way. I can let her go, just as I will have to let my son go
as he grows. I may not be able to share the joy of seeing her grow, but I will
also not have to live in the constant worry that often accompanies parenting.
Of course, I would prefer the
worry and joy of raising the child. How could it be fair or right that my child
would die in such a way, before I could even meet her? How can I respond with
joy and excitement when friends announce the imminent arrival of their own baby,
when all that seems to do is remind me of my own loss?
This inner conflict within
reminds me of another story, told long ago by Jesus.
“For the kingdom
of heaven is like a master of a house who went out early in the morning to hire
laborers for his vineyard. After agreeing with the
laborers for a denarius a day, he sent them into his vineyard. And going out about the third hour he saw others standing idle in the
marketplace, and to them he said, ‘You go into the
vineyard too, and whatever is right I will give you.’ So
they went. Going out again about
the sixth hour and the ninth hour, he did the same. And
about the eleventh hour he went out and found others standing. And he said to
them, ‘Why do you stand here idle all day?’ They said to
him, ‘Because no one has hired us.’ He said to them, ‘You go into the vineyard
too.’ And when evening came, the owner of the vineyard
said to his foreman, ‘Call the laborers and pay them their wages, beginning
with the last, up to the first.’ And when those hired
about the eleventh hour came, each of them received a denarius. Now when those hired first came, they thought they would receive
more, but each of them also received a denarius. And on
receiving it they grumbled at the master of the house, saying,
‘These last worked only one hour, and you have made them equal to us who have
borne the burden of the day and the scorching heat.’ But
he replied to one of them, ‘Friend, I am
doing you no wrong. Did you not agree with me for a denarius? Take what belongs to you and go. I choose to give to this last worker
as I give to you. Am
I not allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me? Or do you begrudge
my generosity? ’So the last will be first, and the first last.” (Matthew
20:1-16 – emphasis mine)
I agreed with God that he could
have my life, and he would give me what was right. There was no contract
specifying number of children, or a life free from pain or struggle, or
anything like that. I trusted when I gave my life to Him that he would be just,
good, righteous. How can I compare what God gives me with the other laborers in
his vineyard? He is doing me no wrong. Children are his gift, and he can give
or withhold or take as he chooses.
What remains is that I must live and
tell my story. I cannot possibly try to live anyone else’s story as well as
mine. Perhaps the darkness of parts of my story will allow the lightning flash
of truth to be all the brighter to the soul who needs to see it. My
response to this darkness must be to take it to Jesus (who is no stranger to
tears). He is the only one who knows my full story, and can give what is
necessary to live it well. I am resolved, then, to wait and hope that he will
grant me the strength to fulfill the full measure of the story he is writing
with me.
