Story Telling

A friend from another time and another place lives here. Her two boys and my older two boys have birthdays within weeks of each other. Once there were four boys between us.

I knew when I watched her at the back of the lanes.
She talked to my baby as he begged for a bowling ball.
It was time for story telling. She has told hers. I needed to tell mine.

I was absolutely uncomfortable. It would have been easiest not to share.

I needed to tell her that I know what it is to long for a third baby.
I needed to tell her that three years ago I wished I was pregnant as I watched her growing belly.
I needed to say that I know what it feels to ask God why life twists and turns to end up in knots.
I spoke her baby girl's name, the one in heaven.

I almost did not share. She would have been just fine had I remained quiet.
But I shared. I told a story different from hers, but still one of longing.
I told her about life in the desert, and finally about life in the green valley.
I told her about untamed joy with our third child, our beautiful son.
I spoke of a full heart, of no more longing.

Twenty four hours lived, and stories are written on every one of us.
Twenty four hours later will we remember how God worked in us, yesterday?
Will we share yesterday's story, and the next one, and the next one?
We are not the sum of just one story, but many stories.

What will it cost to be exposed?
Is the risk worth the return?
All of these stories different, yet each point to the hand of God.