THE POWER OF STORIES

 

   Many folks wiser than I am have told us about the power of telling stories: that it knits us to memory, that stories contain us and keep the bits from flying off into the ether, and that this very human act is living in our very bones. 

 

 Listen to a toddler arranging cars on the floor of his room (as my son, Ben, used to do, in wide, architectural arcs): "The red one goes first--I like the sound it makes--then the yellow one comes..." It is not only that he is organizing his world with his words, he is organizing himself.

 

  The biggest collection of stories that knit us together is the Bible. Sure, there are some seriously weird books inside; there are tons of contradictions; and some books contain a bit more smiting than the New Testament would approve of. But as I go toe-to-toe with my own mortality, I am increasingly drawn to the stories within the Bible:ones that inform, chastise, inspire, and tell me how to be the human being that God created me to be. Just yesterday one translation of the Scripture lesson spoke of, "cutting away the hardness of your hearts."

 

 As I was reading Deuteronomy recently, and realizing that Moses would never get to walk into the promised land, despite leading the cranky and snarky Israelites out of Egypt (were they thankful? No! Why did you bring us out to die in the desert when we could have been munching on cucumbers and melons back in slavery?) I thought about how often the Old Testament has smiting as part of its story-telling. Or, as my dear Rick joked with Pastor Andrea who used to say, "God is still speaking," he said, "God is still spanking." Of course, that is only part of it. There are so many other beautiful stories to take into our hearts.

 But I am thinking--as I face surgery and my own mortality (how many years do I have left, God?)--to organize myself internally I am weaving myself back into the stories my parents and grandparents used to tell and remembering the lessons I learned from them.

 How my mother only had enough money during the Depression and World War II to give my dad a khaki scarf for Christmas when he was a soldier in the army, and he only had enough money to gift her a record. Probably of chamber music, his favorite. As a child I think I protested, "How could that be? How could you be so poor?" And yet, those two simple gifts probably contained all of Christmas cheer that they needed at the time. Simple is best.

 

  How when my dad was stationed down in Virginia and my mom went down to see him, traveling by train, she said at night it never got below 85 degrees in their room. Probably a cheap hotel room as they were short of money. Keep showing up despite the weather.

  How when Dad was a quality manager for the factory producing rubber, inflatable tanks and material for the Ghost Army in France, some dude tried to bribe him to let the products go past without examining them, holding out $350 which was a fortune back then! Dad was always so proud that he told the guy No and to buzz off, although his language was probably saltier. Some people cannot be bought. The price is not worth it.

 

 Going further back to the Northampton house which my great-grandfather L.Clark Seelye had built when he was first president of Smith, my dear grandmother had scarlet fever as a child and was isolated in the top floor of the house where the servants slept. (!) According to my cousin Jean, who researched this event, great-grandfather wrote sweet, tender notes to his daughter Nettie, reminding her that she was not forgotten and that her father loved her dearly. A father's love lightens the day.

 

   Recently, my oldest cousin has been bringing us Seelye cousins together on several Zoom meetings where we get to see each others' faces and tell stories about our families and ancestors. We talk about the fact that our maternal grandfather, Will Gray, a Professor of Classics at Smith College, came from Little Rock, Arkansas, was principal of a school there, and was the son of a small slave-holder, Daniel Gray, a drunkard and wastrel. We all wondered how Grandfather Gray made it up from Arkansas to Northampton to court my grandmother--the Nettie of scarlet fever time--become a professor, marry Henrietta, and be the father of 3 beautiful Gray girls who all became our mothers. Origins do not always tell the whole story.

   One other story, among many, sticks in my mind: my great-grandmother as a young girl wrote many letters to her cousin Abigail who lived north of Albany. When visiting one summer, Nettie saw an Oneida woman come to the Fort there, strip the clothing off of her infant, and hold it under the rushing water from an outdoor faucet. I always remember that, as it connects me to an Indigenous woman probably in the mid-1800s, seeking respite from the heat. Hold onto your ancestors.

 

 I am sure you have stories which connect you to your past; that remind you of where you came from; and which inform you of the person you became. But one of my favorite stories of all comes from "Nella Last's War," where she tells her son, Cliff, before he is sent abroad to fight; "We are all in God's pocket." Those are words to put in your pocket, take out, and hold lovingly when times are hard. As they are now.