Sitting with the Stories

 

I emailed one of my friends yesterday and said, "Well, the blog is taking a real hit right now, because I can't talk about anything that's really happening in our lives."

Ryan and I are swimming in stories that I'm not able to tell right now. Some of them are not mine to tell, so I have to protect them. Some of them are stories-in-progress that I don't want to begin to tell until I know more of the outcome.

So I sit with the stories, waiting to see if any of them take a public-worthy turn. And in the meantime, I try to come up with other things to chat about in this space.

Last Sunday, I sat with stories in a different sort of way. I talked about it a bit on my Sunday Sentiments post, and those of you who have read here for many years know that this is a tradition I have.

I don't remember when it first began, but somewhere along the way, I took a day and watched all the documentaries I could find about 9/11. I did it because I loved hearing the stories of the people. I didn't love it that their stories ended that day, but I loved hearing about the people they had been.

So I made a commitment, really more to myself than to anyone else, that I would honor those lives by sitting one day a year to hear their stories, even if it meant watching the same documentaries over and over again.

Sunday, one of pieces I watched told the story of Asia Cottom. She was a sixth grader, who, along with a couple of classmates and a teacher, were on their way to California because they won an essay contest. They showed Asia's picture - with her bright eyes and infectious smile. Her parents shared about her passions with such pride, and my writer's heart understood the joy of this young girl whose essay writing won her a chance to swim with dolphins. At the end of the interview, the mother said that she would continue to tell Asia's story, and in that way, her daughter's life would continue to matter. 

And I will show up every year to hear about Asia and remember her passion for writing and life.

Another of the pieces I watched told the story of the wife (also a writer) who changed her flight to September 11th from the 10th so she could be home on the morning of her husband's birthday to celebrate him in person. When he went to bed that night, a widower, he found on his pillow the note she had written for him to find. Wanting to be home for a birthday and writing a love note to be found later are both very Bekah-things to do, and my wifely-heart understood why that lady changed her plans. And it ripped at me. Now, forever, her husband's birthday is also the day he lost his wife. 

I will show up every year to listen to him talk with pride about how much he loved his wife and how she wanted to be there to celebrate him.

I probably can't adequately explain to you the honor it is to sit with those stories each year. I didn't know any of those people personally. I don't even know that I knew anyone who knew anyone. I was pretty far removed from the tragedy in that way. But my people-loving heart has been drawn to the stories of the lives, and I will honor them for the rest of my life by sitting with their stories on that day.

A travel goal of mine is to visit each of the memorials in person, as well. Something tells me I will need quite a bit of time with each one, because for me, it won't be about wandering through and saying I've been there. It will be about reading the names - each one - and knowing that I know some of those stories. (And yes, I know in New York, reading each name will take a while.) 

So this is the week I sit with the stories...our own that I can't yet share, and those who want to share the stories of their loved ones who can no longer share their own stories.

We are a people who love to talk...but there is so much value in sitting to hear.