The Rest of the Story

Earlier this summer, I was watching a news show online and one of the commentators kept clearing her throat. It would have been hard to miss, in and of itself, because that’s something rarely seen or heard on professional live broadcasts. But I was particularly tuned in to it because I’d noticed similar behaviors with other commentators for a couple of days by that point: coughing, clearing throats, even slightly raspy voices. What in the world was going on?

It then dawned on me that all of these programs were broadcast from New York City, one of many areas within the United States that had been subjected to dense amounts of smoke blown south from the massive Canadian wildfires. Air quality alerts had been grim for many citizens during those days and for good reason—even much farther down the Eastern Seaboard in Baltimore the air had appeared hazy, and an acrid taste had begun to irritate the back of my throat after I had remained outside for an extended period. That must have been what had affected the various reporters and pundits I’d witnessed online.

It got me thinking about how the videos of these programs (which I had viewed on YouTube slightly after the fact rather than in real time) would likely live online for many years to come. Would somebody watching one of them 5 years, 5 months, or 5 weeks from now remember, or even know about, how impactful just the smoke from those devastating fires had been for New Yorkers (not to mention the much graver consequences the actual flames had been to everything in and around ground zero in Canada)? Or would they just scratch their heads at the seemingly unprofessional behavior of these multiple broadcasters coughing, continually clearing their throats, and soldiering through their reports with hoarse voices?

If so, I would argue that their experiences of those video clips would be diminished, maybe not drastically, but at least to some level. Here’s the thing: none of those shows was talking about the Canadian wildfires. But knowing that they were happening at the same time as the broadcasts, and were having obvious real-life repercussions, would certainly color (even if subconsciously) the reception of what was being discussed, and ultimately lead to a fuller experience of the shared news items. It’s like the wisdom, and attraction, of Paul Harvey’s “The Rest of the Story” segments. Nothing grows a so-so story into a truly compelling experience of engagement like the addition of those kinds of details, which may initially seem insignificant.

This reminds me of my favorite storyteller, Donald Davis, born and bred in the Appalachian Mountains of Western North Carolina amidst a folksy, narrative-infused culture. I remember him sharing a story once about a journalist who had come to interview the oldest member of his community. (We’ll call her Granny.) His evaluation of the finished product, published in the local paper, was fair to middling at best. What was his main critique? The story rarely got beneath the surface, and not necessarily in the ways you might be thinking. The interviewer never thought to ask Granny what she’d eaten for breakfast that morning or if she’d had a good night’s sleep the night before. Nothing was included about what the weather was like that day or how comfortable the room was where the interview took place. The readers had no way of knowing the condition of the house or what Granny was wearing … all things that might have influenced the answers she gave and, subsequently, impacted the readers’ understanding of who Granny really was. Knowing these kinds of contextual gems can sometimes shed immense amounts of illuminating light on a subject, completely changing the interpretive experience for those processing the information.

This is like preaching to the choir for responsible biblical storytellers (something I strive to be!). Sure, anyone could base a biblical story solely on the words provided in a given translation. And that might provide a decent (albeit superficial) account of the narrative … but it also might not be much more instructive than the journalist’s interview of Granny. What’s more, because these stories are from so long ago and a culture very different from our own (not to mention originally in a foreign language where much is potentially lost in translation), if we have any hope of maintaining a semblance of integrity with the original intent, we’re going to have to look into each passage’s broader context (historical, canonical, redactive, genric, etc.) to not only get a fuller story but one that most certainly will be more accurate. Why is this important? Because the Bible has far too often been misinterpreted, sometimes with dreadful—even fatal—results. But if these contextual gems aren’t obvious in the text itself, most people aren’t going to know any better and, even on a much less devastating level, their experience of the stories, at best, will be diminished (just like viewers in the future watching the coughing commentators from NYC during the early summer of 2023). That’s why I always advocate for erring on the side of more, rather than less, story … in whatever form it can be disseminated.

It’s like when I go to museums. I’m a placard reader. [And if you’re not a placard reader, I am not a good person to accompany you to a museum because you will finish way before me and be frustrated and impatient with me for how slowly I make my way through the exhibits!] As I gaze upon each work of art, I silently ask myself, “OK … what’s the story you’re trying to tell me?” As a storyteller, I want to know as much about each piece’s story as possible because all of that information will inform and impact (positively, I would argue) my experience of the individual pieces. And it’s why, during the several years I served as the curator for the little art gallery in my church, I would ask each artist to provide an Artist’s Statement for their exhibit.

Once, I asked an artist friend of mine to display her wonderful paintings of clouds. She enthusiastically agreed, but kept pushing back stubbornly about providing an Artist’s Statement. “The work should speak for itself! I don’t want to tell people what they should think about each piece or how they should interpret them!” I tried to explain to her that I didn’t want that either. I just thought that having some background information on her and her journey with art, painting in particular, might help viewers appreciate even more her beautifully painted canvases. This back and forth went on for a while. Finally, she “gave in” and provided me with this as her Artist’s Statement: “I adore clouds.” Period.

For what it’s worth, I actually loved it. It may not have been much but it was something, an enticing glimpse into the psyche of the artist that could only enhance the viewing experience of those visiting the exhibit. She and I recently recalled that experience and laughed … and continued to debate the merits of knowing contextual tidbits that might broaden/deepen/expand the experience of the receivers! She still held firm to her position, as did I. Afterwards (always after the fact … why can’t I ever think these things up in real time??) I thought of a response that might not have changed her mind but would have at least shown that probably more people than not were on my side, wanting and appreciating a fuller view:

“There’s a reason Paul Harvey’s signature radio offering lasted from WWII to his death in 2009—more than half a century! Clearly, I’m not alone in yearning to learn … the rest of the story!”

Ain’t for Sissies

Ain’t for Sissies

Two weeks ago, I enjoyed my annual biblical storytelling extravaganza: the yearly Festival Gathering of the Network of Biblical Storytellers, International, preceded by three days of the NBSI Scholars’ Seminar and then followed by two days of board meetings (not sure I technically enjoyed the bored … er … board meeting but it was good to spend a few more days with my tribe). And then? My body, mind, and spirit needed the whole next week to recuperate! I didn’t use to require this extensive period of recovery but, alas, I’m no longer a spring chicken. And, as Bette Davis is famous for saying, “Gettin’ old ain’t for sissies.” (sigh …)

I was reminded of this transformation, and particularly how things used to be, when I received an email from this year’s Festival Gathering Coordinator, the day after returning home, asking for a chat to get my take on ways to tweak next year’s schedule. I playfully called her the Energizer Bunny and then asked for a few days to decompress before honoring her request. Her youthful exuberance and lively spirit made me smile because it recalled a very similar vibrancy I had once possessed decades ago when I had been the Festival Gathering Coordinator and had myself been energized by the experience rather than depleted by it. Ah … those were the days … 🫤

This brief reverie also reminded me of a somewhat similar reflection I’d written three years ago while convalescing after my first hip replacement. I’d never done anything with it, so I dug it up and reread it. Now seems like an appropriate time to share it:

2019 was a less-than-stellar year … for many reasons. It was the final months of Mom’s life, and the end wasn’t particularly pretty. My finances took a major enough hit with fewer freelance gigs and a couple of cancelled seminary classes that I had to ask some friends for help paying my bills (never a comfortable place to be). And then there was my health. My gimpy left hip continued to plague me with pain, leading to an ever-increasingly sedentary lifestyle that I’m convinced at least partially (and perhaps mostly) caused a revisit of my 2011 blood clot issues that resulted in 3 nights in the hospital, 6 months of blood thinners, and enough doctors’ visits and tests during autumn to constitute a part-time job (well, let’s call it an internship because I sure wasn’t getting paid for any of it … quite the opposite!).

Months later, I was updating a friend on everything that had transpired and he asked what toll all that had taken on me. I don’t recall if “toll” was the exact word he used but he was definitely trying to get deeper than the typically superficial, “So, how are you?” which is usually answered with an automatic, “Fine” which then encourages the conversation to quickly move on to more “important”—or at least more comfortable—topics. What he wanted to know was how preoccupying all this had been for my overall wellbeing, and I told him it had been all-consuming. But it was more than that. It had been transformational … and not in a good way.

So I responded truthfully, “2019 is the year I turned old.”

Please understand that I’ve never been someone obsessed with youth. In fact, if anything, the wisdom that (hopefully!) comes with age has always been an enticing aspect of getting older. I have no desire to return to a younger age, think that playing coy when asked one’s age (or, worse yet, getting insulted) is ridiculous, and relish each additional candle that graces every subsequent birthday cake. I mean, let’s think about the options: you can get older, or you can die. Period. No contest!

But being OK with gradually aging isn’t the same thing as being OK with suddenly feeling old. Especially at 54. And that’s the condition I found myself in as 2019 wound to a close. I was fully aware—and OK with the fact—that I was no longer 24, or 34, or 44. But neither was I 94, 84, 74, or even 64. If I was already feeling this old, hobbled, and infirm just barely over the half-century mark, that didn’t provide much joyful anticipation for the potentially several more decades of life still ahead of me.

But as disturbing as all that was, there was something else troubling me as well, something connected with this unfamiliar—and unwelcome—fragility:

I had always been the strong one. In every way.

I was physically strong (my junior high gym teacher sincerely wanted to recruit me as a linebacker for the boy’s football team!), emotionally tough (I intentionally avoided crying during my entire teenage years—long story for another time!), and mentally resilient (able to juggle a crazy freelance lifestyle all on my own for multiple decades). My name—Tracy—actually means “courageous warrior” and I’ve worn that descriptor as a badge of honor as well as a behavioral reminder. People expect me to be strong. I expect me to be strong. It’s not just part of who I am, it IS who I am. It’s my identity.

So, to have found myself having to forgo hikes, and rethink travel plans, and even refrain from shaking my booty when a soul-stirring song played, for crying out loud, was a very disturbing development in the Life of Tracy, to say the least.

If I wasn’t strong and tough and sturdy and resilient, who was I?

That unanswered question from three years ago still begs for a response today as I am, once again, reminded of my vulnerability, reminded that I don’t have the same body or energy level of Tracy from 25 years ago, reminded that there are chinks in my armor (hell, there are whole pieces of that armor that have simply vanished!).

So, who am I? Well, maybe at 58 now, it’s time (past time?) for me to start creating a new identity that doesn’t rely solely on fiercely independent strength but one that embraces a softer, slower, gentler pace and the occasional need to depend on others … one that honors personal changes and times of rest … one that celebrates and is grateful for whatever functioning abilities I still happen to possess at each new phase and stage of life.

I suppose what I really desire is a version of the well-known serenity prayer:

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference, living one day at a time, and enjoying one moment at a time. Most of all, may all of that come with a dose of grace and a bit of humor.

Lord knows I’ll need ‘em because … gettin’ old ain’t for sissies!

Life in a Relatively Uncomplicated Bubble

Oprah had a feature in her O magazine where she would share “What I Know for Sure” and, in various ways over the years, she has invited her readers and followers to reflect on the things that they knew for sure as well.

Well, two things I would include in my own personal list of things that I currently know for sure would be:

1) I live in a bubble of sorts

and

2) My life is relatively simple and uncomplicated

To the first point of living in a bubble … that might strike some who know me as an odd statement to make since they see me as a well-educated, curious, global traveler with an expansive and inclusive world view. And even though I don’t participate in social media, I’m described by a friend—who is very much ensconced in that reality—as “the most aware, current, and in-the-know person not on social media” that he’s aware of.

When I received my doctorate, my mom wrote something in the card that accompanied my graduation present about how few people enjoyed learning as much as I did. (She should know; this was the third post-graduate present she’d had to buy me!) She also wrote in my chapter of her memoir (each of us kids got our own chapter) about how I have friends all over the world; case in point, I’ll be visiting two of them in Spain and Malta this fall.

So why in the world would I consider my life as existing within a bubble (of sorts)?

The things that I know and have experienced, and the areas in which I’ve been educated and trained, I’m quite conversant, and my understanding of them goes fairly deep. Ask me, therefore, about adjunct teaching in higher education—or pedagogy in general—religion or the Bible or theology, performance or oral interpretation or storytelling, spirituality and creativity (heck, you can even ask me about accordions!) and I can fill your ear. But pretty quickly outside of those circles (and let’s be clear … there are a LOT of areas outside of those circles; almost an infinite number!) I become a deer in headlights, trying to decipher words and phrases that might as well be spoken in Swahili. They simply do not compute in the specifically trained “bubbles” within my, albeit, well-educated brain.

It’s one thing not to understand or fully grasp the concepts or vocabulary involved in astrophysics or neuroscience because I rarely cross paths with any aspect of these disciplines in a meaningful or impactful way in my daily life. But there are dimensions of banking and investments, insurance, the law, or medicine that may—or do—intersect with my experience of life and I’m often clueless.

I could not begin to explain what the movie “The Big Short” (talk about a bubble!) is about, other than the 2008 banking crisis. (Even when the director breaks the fourth wall to literally explain key concepts, I’m in the dark: subprime loan; credit default swap; mortgage bonds; selling short … might as well be Charlie Brown’s teacher talking: “Mwya mwya mwya mwya mwya mwya.”) I have no idea what an annuity is and I always have to stop and think: is my monthly insurance payment a premium or a deductible? What, exactly, is the difference between an indictment and an arrest? And don’t get me started on health care and Big Pharma (definitely a post for another time!).

This bubble “sheltering” includes vocational ignorance as well. Years ago, my brother got a job at a cold food storage company. Turns out, meats don’t go directly from the processing plants to the grocery stores; they make a stop at storage facilities first. Who knew? I have a relative who serves as the Food Expeditor at his restaurant, responsibilities for which [according to the Internet] include “ensuring the smooth and timely flow of orders from waiters to the kitchen, checking dishes for accuracy and presentation, assisting in final dish preparation, maintaining fast service, handling customer complaints, and upholding quality and sanitation standards.” Makes sense but who knew there was an actual person whose job it was to oversee all that? Not me! And speaking of restaurants, a cousin of mine married a guy who connects restaurants needing to dispose of their used cooking grease with biofuel companies needing said grease to produce their fuel. I’m thrilled that this kind of upcycling exists, but I had no idea that someone could actually pay their bills with this type of work. Like I said, I live in a bubble.

Of course, it’s not lost on me that many people have no idea that “professional storyteller” is a thing that can pay the bills, either, so clearly I’m not the only one living in a bubble! 😏

And it’s largely the freelance storytelling career I’ve chosen for myself that has necessitated my second point above about living a relatively simple and uncomplicated life.

Some might see the lack of stability and benefits dictated by a freelance lifestyle as anything but uncomplicated. The fact that gig-economy folks like me have to scramble for enough work to pay the bills— and even then, there are no guarantees—may come across as much more complicated than steady work with unchanging hours and the same office colleagues and location every day. Perhaps. But for me, my “barely-squeaking-by” income of the last several decades has dictated that my life—in terms of where my limited money goes and what I’m able to spend my time and money on—has to be simple.

So, no second homes or boats or RVs or time shares. No extra pieces of land or mineral rights or 401Ks or trusts or m-u-l-t-i-p-l-e insurance policies. I have a checking account and a savings account. I do have a little money invested (and it’s totally worth it to me to have a financial adviser oversee all that because of the “Swahili/I-live-in-a-bubble”/I-don’t-understand-“The Big Short” reality mentioned above). I don’t have a partner or dependents, including pets. I own my house and one vehicle. That’s it.

Helping Dad get his affairs in order has brought into sharp relief how complicated his life is in comparison! His assets are much larger than mine, both in diversity and in value. The number of phone calls made and conversations had, files checked (not to mention first locating said files!) and papers signed, documents notarized and records submitted has been exhausting. I don’t say any of this in judgment. Dad worked hard, made a good living, and rewarded himself (and his family) accordingly. More power to him.

And …

It’s helped me appreciate my own simpler, and yet very fulfilling, existence … even though it might occur largely in a bubble. It’s also made me realize a third thing I now know for sure: Whoever “cleans up after me” when I reach the end will likely appreciate my relatively uncomplicated bubble, too!

Midwestern Hospitality

Shortly after getting settled into my first real adult job in a small town in North Carolina, I made a dental appointment for a routine cleaning. The technician, who also happened to be the wife of the dentist, got to chatting with me and when she found out I was originally from Ohio she got a big grin on her face. “You know, people always talk about Southern hospitality. But my husband and I spent a few wonderful years in Minnesota while he was going to school and, I swear, no hospitality anywhere compares to what we experienced while living in the Midwest.”

While I haven’t really lived in the Midwest since graduating from high school in 1983, I am consciously grateful for having had a Midwestern upbringing and I do appreciate the examples of its hospitality when I go home to visit.

I had one such experience this past week when I was home continuing to help my dad get his affairs in order. It just so happened that the AC in my 2005 VW Beetle had conked out while making my way there. July is not a good time to be without AC! If it had to happen, however, I was grateful for the timing since I could now take it to my dad’s car guys, Glenn’s Car Care, who had worked on this car many times before —ahem!—and always at lower costs than what I’ve been able to find in Baltimore.

The problem? July 4th. I wasn’t made aware of the AC issue until Saturday, July 1. I knew Glenn’s wasn’t open on Saturdays. So I called them on Monday, July 3, hoping they might be working. They weren’t, so I left a message. The shop, of course, was closed on Tuesday. So it was Wednesday before they returned my call. But I was busy all that day tending to Dad’s chemo appointment and needed my car to transport him. So it would be Thursday morning before I could drop it off, only leaving them two days to work on it before I headed back to Baltimore. Jason, the front desk guy, told me they were really busy that week, but they’d see what they could do.

He called me Thursday afternoon to say that he had spent multiple hours trying to find an elusive part called a “line”—seriously, the VW dealer said that’s how it was referred to and it didn’t even have a part number for easy researching, it was just the “AC line”—but since VW no longer makes Beetles, they had stopped manufacturing its various parts and no random “leftovers” were showing up anywhere online after an exhaustive national search. I didn’t relish the thought of no AC for the rest of the summer but figured I’d tackle that problem later. So I thanked him for his efforts and told him it would be Friday before I could arrange a ride to come pick up my car.

Late Friday morning he called to say that he had done a little more searching and had found the needed part but, since I was leaving that weekend, they wouldn’t get it in time to do the necessary work. I thanked him again for going over and beyond the call of duty and assured him I would be by to pick up my car once my brother got home from work around 2:00.

Jason then called back around 1:00 to let me know that Mike, the main mechanic, had found a general “repair kit” that could be delivered immediately. He wasn’t 100% sure that it would have the elusive “line,” since this kit wasn’t specifically for VWs, but he’d ordered it, with fingers crossed. Assuming the best, he’d need the day to work on it, however, so Jason told me not to come for the car until the end of the workday.

He called again at 4:00. “You’ve got AC” was his response to my “Hello?” I was thrilled, of course, but I couldn’t help worrying about how much all this was going to set me back.

When I arrived within the hour to pick up my car, I naturally asked for the full story of this miraculous car healing. He mentioned, again, that the repair kit was generic and while it had contained a “line,” they’d used some extra clamps to secure it since it wasn’t specifically made for a Beetle. He also mentioned that the kit had cost over $700—which made my heart skip a beat—but that since it wasn’t a “one and done” kind of kit, they’d be able to use it for several other cars’ issues in the future. “Well, that’s good,” I thought to myself, “but I wonder what percentage of that $700 they’ll pass on to me … not to mention the HOURS they had spent looking for this part online and the MANY phone calls that had been made—all during a very busy and truncated holiday week—plus the labor costs for the actual installation … cha-ching, cha-ching, cha-ching!”

He placed the bill in front of me. $262.32.

Was that a typo? Nope. That, my friends, was Midwestern hospitality.

Heal the world. Cook dinner tonight.

A few years ago, I received a birthday present of multiple spices from Penzeys and included among the jars was a colorful tie-dyed-ish banner about 2-foot square with a big green heart overlayed upon a marble blue earth in the center. Along the bottom it read: Heal the world. Cook dinner tonight.

I wasn’t sure I really understood the sentiment, but the banner was beautiful, was exactly the right size to fit into a spot on my kitchen wall, and perfectly matched the colors of a long tapestry I had painted that would hang next to it. So I hung it up and have enjoyed the visual stimulation ever since. But after multiple years, I still hadn’t quite figured out how cooking dinner could heal the world.

Jump ahead to last week when a friend gifted me with a free trial to Hello Fresh, a meal delivery company. Unlike GrubHub or Doordash, the food does not come pre-cooked. Every ingredient (other than staples like salt, pepper, olive oil, and butter) that you’ll need comes in the exact portions required. The box also included very detailed placards containing not only the preparation directions but also how long each step will take, how to adjust the recipe for different numbers of people and different dietary needs, and how many calories per serving there are. True to its name, the ingredients weren’t just fresh, they stayed fresh for almost a week; it took me a little longer to work my way through the five meals, each of which served two people, since there’s only one of me.

That has, at least in part, been one of my cooking challenges over the years.

To cook a well-thought-out meal takes time—from planning to grocery shopping to preparing to cleaning up. Even the actual eating often takes longer if it’s an actual meal and not just an eating-tuna-out-of-the-can experience … something that I do quite often. To go to all that trouble just for me often requires more energy than I’m willing to give. I remember having a conversation about this once years ago with a classmate in seminary. She retorted, “Oh, so YOU aren’t worth the effort of a home-cooked meal?” Point taken.

So, does cooking dinner begin to heal the world by, even on a subconscious level, validating the worth of the person who happens to eat that dinner alone? Maybe.

Does it encourage those single eaters like me to not confine myself to dining solo but to (here’s a novel idea) invite a friend over to share the meal? Perhaps. I mean, I don’t think it’s a fluke that you can’t order single servings from Hello Fresh; two is the minimal amount they offer. And the one time I did actually have a friend share the meal with me was more enjoyable, naturally. We had already spent a few hours together in town and then, instead of dealing with parking and crowds, and noise, and tips, etc., we retired to my house, splitting the cooking and cleaning up duties. This allowed us to really relax on my back porch while we ate, continuing to bond and share together in the shedding of some tears as well as much laughter, all in the comfort of perfect outdoor weather conditions. The only thing that ended the experience was when it got too dark for us to see each other (otherwise, we might still be there!). Ah … is that how cooking can begin to heal the world? Maybe.

I’m a lover of etymology and one of my favorite discoveries has been the root of the word “companion.” It means “with bread.” A companion is someone with whom we break bread. I LOVE that! I feel like it makes every shared meal a potentially holy moment, even sacramental. There’s a reason that Jesus instructed his followers at the Last Supper, and why we are reminded every time we partake of the Eucharist, to do this (i.e. break bread) in remembrance of him— and not just remember that there was this guy named Jesus, or even that there’s an implied relationship with him that shouldn’t be forgotten, but that we are to carry on his work of love, compassion[1], and companioning in the world.

One way to heal a broken world is to break bread with others and in so doing, spend time with them as true companions—bonding, sharing together in the shedding of tears as well as much laughter. I don’t know if this is what Penzeys intended with their colorful tie-dyed banner, but it works for me. And I think it just might work for the world.


[1] Of course, the etymology of “compassion” means “with passion”—but that’s a whole other essay for another time! 😉