The Stories We Tell

When we get home, Mom, I’m going to take off my shoes and then I’m going to change into my green dress and then I’m going to get out the crayons and color with my sister.

She narrates our entire day.

Mom, did you see that? Did you see me do that leap? Here. I’ll do it again. Watch, Mom! I just put my legs like this, and then I bend my knees like this, and one arm goes up. Did you see that arm go up, Mom? And then I LEAP across the floor!

My four-year-old does this with most of her moments that make up our days.

And sometimes, honestly, it can be a bit . . . noisy. Sometimes I try to tune out the narration of why she needed to wear those socks with those shoes while she jumped up the stairs.

But most of the time I love it. Because my girl is telling the story of her days.

And I think of the Israelites. How many times are they commanded to remember? God reminded them often:

“I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of Egypt.” {Exodus 20:2}

Because when the Israelites forgot the story of their days, they wandered. When they no longer told the stories of what their God did to rescue them, they became ungrateful.

And just like my girl, I find myself narrating my days. But for me, it’s to keep my heart in check. For me, it is to make sure I am seeing correctly.

Because when I forget, I wander too. When I forget, I tend to see my days through the lens of entitled, of bitter, of insufficient. I tend to notice the dishes in the sink my husband didn’t put away. I tend to dwell on the wrong word chosen. I tend to look in the mirror and see those extra pregnancy pounds that linger.

And so I narrate my days to make sure I notice. I see them: “Look how well they’re playing together.” Or, “He just folded the laundry without my asking.” Or, “We have a roof over our heads and food on our table.” I see the strong bodies and the sturdy muscles and the clothes on our back that are stained on the knees from playing at the pond down the street.

And suddenly it all looks so very different.

Based on the story I tell myself, I am content or not, confident or not, trusting or not, grateful or not.

Telling the story is so, so very important. Because I don’t want to forget. I want to make sure I always tell myself the story of what is true, of what is good, of what is life-giving.

The Israelites had to be reminded time and time again of their own story: I am the Lord who brought you out of Egypt.

I need to be reminded time and time again, every single day, of the many, many places to find gratitude throughout my days and throughout my world.

Because I have it together until I don’t.
My kids are easy until they’re not.
I feel confident until I don’t.

But if I connect myself to my days, if I find things to be grateful for throughout the ebb and flow of it all, gratitude can shift my heart to tell an entirely different story.

I see them. I see him. The roof, the food, the strong bodies, the text from a friend, the leaves on the trees, and the sunset in the sky.

And suddenly my scene looks so very different.

So when your ground shakes and you have to squint to see the grateful and a season of Thanksgiving feels too heavy to carry, try telling the story again; see if maybe you can capture something new that shimmers amongst the hard.

What story are you telling?

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Related: Begin to narrate your own day and remember the many gifts God has given you in these beautiful journals.