Sometimes I think cemeteries are so scary because of all the stories people carry to their graves—the ones they didn’t think mattered and the ones they were too ashamed to share.
Just about the worst thing I can think of is people keeping their stories a secret because they couldn’t see their value, or because they were too afraid of what others might think.
Just about my favorite thing in life is when people share their true stories—the ones that aren’t so neat and tidy, and the ones that make me gasp with disbelief.
To me, our stories are like scripture.
They’re the stuff we had to go through—the mistakes and the risks, the victories and the pain, the magic and the miracles.
They’re the battles we fought—over which voices we listened to, and which sides we took.
Our stories literally contain the ingredients that made us who we are, that helped us to discover all we could be, or that fooled us into thinking we weren’t enough.
Our stories aren’t only important because of their beauty and heartache and perspective. They’re also important because they contain the wisdom that others might need, to save them from having to learn the same lessons we already did.
I get the importance of waiting for the right time to share our truest stories, but I wish more people realized how much their stories are needed.
I wish my grandmother would have shared hers with me before she died.
Now all I can do is wonder—who was she really?
Was she once like me before her circumstances shut her down? And what were those circumstances really? Did she still get to be her most authentic self in some nook or cranny when no one was looking? Or in the privacy of her mind? Did she have any regrets that kept her up at night?
Maybe everyone should be required to write a memoir. And if they’re too uncomfortable to share it while they’re living, at least they could leave it behind. I bet it would be the first thing everyone rushed to see.
-JLK
