A Storyteller's Void

Sometime around 4th or 5th grade, I gained a conscious testimony of who I was to God. I felt like His little girl. I remember being very homesick for heaven during these years. I remember wishing I were an angel. I hoped with all my heart that if I believed hard enough, God would take me back as one of His angels. On windy days, it was all I could do to make it through school and run home as fast as I could. I would run to the garage and get a tarp, tie it around my wrists and ankles on each corner, and stand at the edge of the front porch several feet from the ground, and I would close my eyes and jump. I felt something, something I couldn't see, grab me and carry me across my front lawn. I would open my eyes and find myself landed where I could not hope to land if I simply jumped without the wind to hold me. I would climb back up to the porch and jump again, hoping "THIS time I'll really fly, more than just the wind can take me!" There are sometimes the void has nearly swallowed me.

In all of us, I believe there is a homesickness, a void. Perhaps it started when we were born and passed through a veil, separated from our Heavenly Father and Mother for an unknown amount of time. Surely being separated from a loving parent at birth can do some powerful things to a person. We may feel angry, we may feel depressed at times, we may get mixed up in things we ought not. Invariably, we feel a profound void, a longing for that something that is bigger than us and wrapped us up in belonging at one time.

            I think my favorite stories that stay with me, and the ones I feel most urgently to tell, are the stories which speak to this homesickness inside of me and to the homesickness I believe lies at the heart of naked humanity. And to get to the naked humanity, I cannot help but elicit images, descriptions, and actions that are reminiscent of children and in a story-world so wrought with symbolism and the unseen that it is almost magical. In an adult mind, no hugs to a tree could really transfer to a dead Grandpa and no, dead people can’t whisper in sunlight. And yet, everyone in my audience believed me, or at least considered it viable. Somewhere in their naked child-like hearts, they were hoping I was right. The idea made the void shrink just a little for a moment and it felt good to feel more whole.

            It is children who allow themselves to really feel the void. They cry when mommy walks too far away or when the beloved stuffed puppy is dropped somewhere three steps behind. They giggle with delight when they feel the void shrink when daddy gets home or when a doggy’s fur moves beneath and tickles their little hands by some force, some being, bigger than their own, or out of their control. It is the void that leads children to desire to grow, to know, and to give. As we get older, we begin to avoid feeling the void. We spend hours on Facebook, Netflix, or simply being busy – too busy to be left wanting more. And yet we are wanting more. As we climb into bed, sometimes we can feel a slight heartache muffled by covers and plans for the next day.

            Stories are void-shrinkers. A void which is felt together shrinks. Someone mentioned in my feedback slips that my grandpa tree story is like an allegory for our relationship with God. I agree; it is a journey we all take and in which we each feel anger at times, humor and giggles at clever “coincidences,” and peace when we feel Him near. When we connect with a story shared by another, we connect with something bigger than us, perhaps even God. We do not seek stories to rid us of the void. We need the void to connect to the very thing that can ultimately fill it for us. It is only when we become exquisitely aware of how far away from home we are that we begin knocking on doors and they begin opening.

            One thing I enjoy and think I can do well, is create a shared image. In my feedback, several people sketched my grandpa tree, or rocks, and they were all perfectly spot on. When I describe things, I think of myself as a little kid when a guest comes to my house to visit. I go into my room and come out with an armload of my favorite toys and want to show them all to the audience. It’s not the toys I care about so much as the wanting my visitors to see what I see in the objects so we can be one. If I can get a group of people to see a simple object the way I do, then in the simplest form, I’ve created something bigger than us both – a shared meaning. The void shrinks, and I’ve done my job as a human being. Some call me a storyteller. I'm a student learning to be human in front of you.