Hereby Declaring Mondays as: Favorite Life Story Days

OR:  "If You've Known Me for 20 Minutes, or Been in a Congregation I Serve(d), You've Probably Already Heard These.

Most days are normal.  Thank God.

But some experiences are out of the ordinary.  Some days are extraordinary. Some stories are more interesting.


One of my favorite parts of ministry is hearing people's stories.  I loved hearing about Buda and Sherwood eloping to Missouri.  She wore a red, satin wedding dress she'd sewn in Home Economics (circa 1930?).  I loved that Bruce built a zipline in his backyard for his kids.  I am still in awe that Betty left her abusive husband and was surrounded by love and support in her small, rural community...long before women were allowed that freedom.  My mother-in-law wasn't allowed to go outside as a child to play until the streets had been "watered" to keep the dust down. (When she first told me this, I was a mother of small children, and my first thought was, "Ummm....MUD?")

I am a fan of StoryCorps, a national movement to collect oral histories from people.  I feel like I've heard a lot of stories that, sadly, went to the grave with their perpetrators, so I'm grateful that more stories are being preserved.  I especially love hearing about the shenanigans and adventures of young people coming out of the mouths of their 90-year old incarnations.  It helps me remember that old people are real people with real passions, real histories and real experiences.  They snuck out with girlfriends, had secret marriages, dreamed big dreams, lost loved ones, overcame obstacles and took risks.  Even if they are frail now or their lives have become much smaller...it wasn't always the case!

I have stories, too.

So, I'm dedicating Monday to the preserving of my own stories. I think I'll enjoy them when the nursing home volunteers come to read them to me in the future. I hope you enjoy them, too.

Among my favorite life stories are the experiences of Extreme Hospitality I've known.

Just one for today:

I was backpacking alone in Israel.  I'd been living in Germany for a year and had met a lot of international students.  Before I returned to the US, I wanted to visit some of my friends in their home country. 

I'd been in Israel for a few days. I stayed at the hostel in Tel-Aviv and Jerusalem and did some sight-seeing. I went south to visit the Dead Sea and slept on the grass in a park with some just-met friends when the air conditioning in our rented room broke down.  Somewhere along the way I ate something or caught something that started to work its evil power.  By the time I'd flown back to Jerusalem, gotten to the bus station to catch a bus to Haifa (to visit my friend, Tami), and was waiting for departure, I was definitely slowing down.

A man who was also waiting for the Haifa bus asked me, "Are you sad?  Homesick, perhaps?"

"Not homesick; I think I'm getting real sick."

In spite of that confession, he sat next to me on the bus.

In the three hours it took to travel by bus from Jerusalem to Haifa, I went from "not great" to "definitely ill."  I learned that my seat companion was a Professor of Yiddish at Haifa University.  He was an American who had re-located with his family to Israel to teach. When we arrived at the bus station in Haifa, he stayed by my side until he was sure I had a place to stay.  But, I was a day early and my friend, Tami, could not be reached by phone.   The professor invited me to his home until the next day when Tami was expecting me.  He was sure his wife wouldn't mind.  If he'd only known...

Once we got to his home, he and his wife got me settled in their son's bedroom.  I spent the next two days crawling from that bed to the nearby bathroom and back again.  The days passed in oblivion; I was either asleep or throwing up.  My hosts, virtual strangers, brought broth and soda to my bedside until I was able to sit up and eat a meal.  They communicated with my friend and made arrangements for her to meet me once I was well.

Keep in mind, once I was a mother myself, I could only barely care for my own children when they were vomiting.  My husband would not give me even that much credit.

 So, I am amazed that I was invited, sick, at a bus station into the homes of two wonderful people who had compassionate hearts.  I am still grateful.

Their hospitality and fearlessness in welcoming "the stranger" deeply impacted my own reception of those I do not know and my treatment of others in need.  Having once been "the stranger," I try to look at people through the eyes of my compassionate hosts, who saw, not an enemy, not a threat, not a danger, but a fellow human being in need for whom they had the available resources to provide care.

Two terrible days in their lives; a lifetime of influence in mine.