The other day I was discussing with my book club friends the notion of storytelling. Histories being handed down from one generation to the next. The sharing of stories about ancestors who were brave and courageous and ones who survived impossible odds to move to a different land for better opportunities or even just for freedom.
As I research my family tree, I see names and places that I did not know were a part of my rich and textured story. I wish I had their backgrounds, their thoughts, and feelings through major world events. I have none of that. I must guess.
Like many people, my family history is complicated. It’s not very neat and pretty. There are some horrific parts that still make us reel. There are parts that are filled with sorrow and pain that is unimaginable. My family is filled with stories you don’t tell. They are whispered, if spoken of at all. My own short history is filled with these stories as well. So, I follow suit. I cover my ugly parts, my horrors, my griefs, and my messiness up. I draw close my cloak of silence and move through life.
I think many of us are ashamed of our history or even the history of our family. I remember wishing that my maternal grandmother was more…well, grandmotherly. There were no fresh baked goods waiting for us in her kitchen. She was a terrible cook. You were more likely to hear her call someone a jackass (usually while driving) than to hear her sing lullabies. I USED to wish for the movie versions of grandma. But I look back on her ALWAYS giving one of the grandkids a ride to and from anywhere when needed. I think about her distress at me or one of my sisters feeling left out so she would buy us both presents on our birthdays. She doted on my nephews with the little she had.
I almost let myself get robbed of the treasured memories and their beauty because they were not what I thought good stories looked like.
How often do we do that?
What if we reclaimed our stories because of our survival? What if we reclaimed our stories because God showed up in impossible circumstances? Because He offered the most amazing relief and freedom amid anguish and pain? What if part of the shame we feel about our histories is because we have not allowed the gorgeous flower of peace and healing grow in the telling of who we are and how our present self came about through those circumstances?
Now, I’m a firm believer of therapy. I also think that if trauma is part of your story, the best thing you can do is work through that with a licensed counselor. It helps, I promise.
Maybe in this advent season, we can look at another messy and unpretty history and the eternal gift that grows from the lineage outlined in Matthew 1:1-17. Abraham lied a lot. Rahab was a prostitute. Solomon’s mother is “Uriah’s wife” not David’s. Mannaseh was an evil king until he repented. We could really pick through the people in Jesus’ lineage and find reasons he should be ashamed. His family history is one you whisper. But no, it is immortalized for all time.
Because our history, our family’s histories are what make us, US.
So, I guess this is a roundabout way of encouraging storytelling of our ancestors in this time of Advent. Tell of the good, the bad, the brave, the sad. All of it. Let your kids, nieces, nephews, grandkids know that there is nothing to be ashamed of when it comes to who they are. Give them the beauty of knowing what their family has fought and won and the battles ongoing. It’s all worth telling. All of it.
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