My grandmother cocks her head and squints her eyes in the way she always does when she doesn’t believe me. Whenever she calls my truth-telling into question she asks, “Ann, are you telling a story?” She knows me too well. Sometimes she phrases it differently, imperatively. “Don’t story to me now.” My grandmother is a wise woman who recognizes I have tapped into a particular power source at a young age. Storytelling.
Storytelling is a fundamental part of being human. We all tell stories. Everyday. Whether it is a narrative account of our daily activities, family histories, work enterprises, or life experiences, our stories have incredible value. I believe in the power of these stories. Narrative creates an emotional connection that nurtures relationships to form community. Stories provide a sense of identity and make meaning in our lives. We are wired for story.
My love affair with stories began with another grandmother, my Great-Grandmother Kunkler. She would weave tales and spin yarns about wise old owls and little boys who were always getting into trouble. On trips to visit, the family would sit around the kitchen table sharing anecdotes about life in the country, zany relatives, or humorous antics. My fascination was not just with real-life stories, but the imaginary ones, too. I was the bookish kid who looked forward to the arrival of the bookmobile at school. I relished browsing titles on the shelves, carefully selecting my stack for that month’s reading. This is a joy that I am grateful for every time I enter a library or bookstore.
As I grew older, I learned to appreciate the twice-daily newspaper delivery, hard to imagine today. Real-life news stories informed my life and educated me about the world beyond mine. I enjoyed magazines, too. Issues of Seventeen with fashion stories and make-up tips, not to mention juicy surveys, were stacked in a pile by the desk in my bedroom. Stories came into my home during the evening news on television while we ate dinner. It is a ritual in my house even to this day despite the never-ending 24-hour news cycle. I also still enjoy watching a well-written sitcom. In school, when I was bored or finished early with my assignments, I would write stories on wide-ruled notebook paper in big loopy handwriting.
So, it should come as no surprise that when it came time to choose a major in college, I selected journalism. I learned how to gather stories and tell them myself. I collected tools to write copy and create content. My professional journalism career capitulated to being a stay-at-home mom to my precious two children. During that time, I cherished instilling my love for stories in them. Then I discovered the power of narrative in a completely different way during seminary and then in ministry. The ancient narratives became my primary source material for storytelling. I paid closer attention to the stories I heard all around me. This is when I realized the power of stories to make meaning and create belonging. My appreciation for those family oral traditions deepened.
My oldest grandson has rekindled my passion for storytelling. All kinds. His sweet plea, “Honey, please will you tell me a story,” melts my heart and inspires me to weave tales and spin yarns myself. With both of my grandsons, I have discovered the stories of new characters in the pages of their books. Whenever they visit, the library is always on the itinerary. The power of narrative is handed to a new generation.
So, as I begin a new chapter (pun clearly intended) with storytelling, I think it only appropriate to title the blog of this latest adventure Ann Tells a Story. In my mind’s eye, I can picture my grandmother all over again. Head cocked. Eyes squinted. Thought bubble over her head that says, “Really?” Yep. This time I am telling the truth. I am going to tell stories I hope you’ll want to read and hear.
Write On.
Ann Self 