Two Days After the Stage (we’re still listening)

It’s been two days since Listen To Your Mother, Atlanta.

We all gathered into the theatre, and we trickled out with new friends, our arms full of flowers, our hearts covered in thanks.

And today I’m quietly gathered into my home, nursing my toddler to sleep while I read my friend Dawn’s book.

I read these books and blog posts, like I listened to those essayed words, poured out from full hearts, and it’s the miracle of Story every time.

I sit in Sunday School and Melissa asks, “What is it about the Story of Jesus?” And there it is again. The Story.

It’s grace and community and connectedness woven throughout humanity, because we all see ourselves in each other.

Miranda handed out the thin red threads, bracelets that remind us who we are to each other, to ourselves.

And there, again. Story.

It’s all bigger than we see it to be, and it expands and flourishes, even in the deadest and driest places.

But when we get a glimpse, when we catch it and squeeze a hand and grab a shoulder and exhale the “Me too,” it’s humanity bound all over again.

If we received anything out of the show last weekend, it was the chance to see ourselves reflected in each other.

Standing on a stage and spilling out our celebrations and losses, our laughs and tears, our realities and dreams, it was everything that makes mothers mothers, women women and humans human.

It was being told that we can and should, that coffee dates and meals shared around tables are proof that Story-sharing has lasted for centuries because it holds us to one another.

It was Nicki, Dawn, Kayla, Krystyn, Raivon, Karen, Renee, Kit, Kyle, Julie, Rachel, Erin, Miranda, and Jana. It was a season in which faces became names and names became hearts and hearts came together and we became sisterhood.

The power of Story does things unimaginable, does thing unseen in our deepest places, in the places where we’re afraid and so hungry for community, so hungry for someone kind to say that they see us.

So,

Listen to your mother.

Listen to your brother,

your sister,

your cousin,

your barista,

your enemy.

Listen to your gut,

your God,

your quiet.

Just listen.

And let the Storytelling tell you.

And miracle of all miracles, we look for the heavens and whisper, “Hallelujah. Thank you,” as we step into the dawning day.