BST's Blog

I had a great phone conversation last night with a friend who is an English professor at ACU about blogs. This is a good exercise for me. I would recommend it for anyone. Beyond talking blogs, we laughed and talked about our kids and the challenges of staying in touch with each other. Kyle Dickson and I have known each other almost our entire lives. There are just some friends who are woven into our tapestry of life in a way that even time and distance can't remove.

Last night I dreamed about Jeannette and Harold Lipford, a dear family in Abilene who has meant so much to me. Jeannette was my voice coach for years. Harold spoke at my father's funeral. I miss them.

I grew up hearing stories. My parents were educators and read to me almost every day of my childhood. But beyond the written word, I heard family stories of even greater drama and color. My Aunt Dot, affectionately known as my "crazy" Aunt Dot because of her wild and colorful personality, used to tell me stories of grandparents, great grandparents, great Aunts who had lost their minds and whacked kids with canes, relatives who were highly influential, and relatives who had "gone off the deep end". Certainly, most of these stories were stretched more than a little. But, I LOVED them. I would sit and listen with big eyes as she and my dad would paint these pictures in my mind of their childhood and all their adventures.

My dad was the youngest. My grandparents would leave her in charge of my father and as soon as they were gone she'd call her boyfriend to come over and they'd drive off leaving my father on the curb. What's worse is she'd holler back over her shoulder... "Don't let Shiny Eyes and Bloody Bones getcha!!" This fictitious character (who supposedly lived in the attic--where all scary creatures live) created much terror for my father in those days. Some of you might be feeling like that was a terrible thing or even border line child abuse. You might be right. However, it became fodder for some great story telling and always brought a laugh with our family.

My dad's family were "water fighters". There are stories beyond what I can recount here of endless summer water fights. Even one when my dad brought home a girl from ACU who the family couldn't stand. They began a water fight and that was the end of her. Thank goodness!

Stories are important. We need a place to write them down, to tell them, to keep those mysteries alive. I remember driving the old country road to my parents' house one afternoon to see my dad who was near the end of his struggle with cancer (I was 21). I remember vividly having a realization that my dad would only exist in stories for my future wife and children. This man whom I adored and who changed so many peoples' lives would become a story to them. It infuriated me. I got out of the car and screamed crying. It might have been the first time I admitted that he wouldn't make it. I can still feel the pain of that moment.

Jesus was the ultimate story teller. He masterfully told tales about farmers, crops, thieves, and people some might consider "questionable". His way of disarming and challenging people strikes a chord with me. Our culture today responds to stories. We have something to share. There are stories of faith, stories of struggle, stories of victory and loss. Overall, the One Great Hero prevails...even through the climactic moments when you think there'll be no escape. That story has saved my life. Through tragedy, loss, hopelessness, the seemingly irremovable thorns, sin, births, deaths, laughter, and tears, I hold on to the conviction that this story is true. It's not something we tell ourselves in order to feel better. It really happened. Jesus really did die and live again. Isn't that something worth sharing?