STORY.

In his book "To Be Told", Dan Allender writes, "You are a story. You are not merely the possessor and teller of a number of stories; you are a well written, intentional story that is authored by the greatest author of all time, and even before time and after time." He goes on to say, "It is imperative to search for one's story. It is not I who must be found. Instead it is God who is to be found. He waits-quietly, passionately, and winsomely-within my story."

I am a story. I remember that concept feeling so vague and out of reach for me. For me, life had been something that was lived in the presence of so many others. Everyone around me seemed to be living life with me and appeared to have a handle on who I was. I don't remember many people being curious about me. I was a "known commodity" to most everyone. Even when I moved away to go to grad school, people quickly figured out who I was and what I was about. I don't remember many people being curious about who I was, what had made me, what had shaped me, why I made the decisions I did, why I believed what I believed.

She was curious though. She wanted to know who this young woman was who was weeping at the foot of the cross in front of the church. She wanted to know what could make this "churched/christian-school girl" hide. She wanted to know what had shaped me, what had impacted me, what had scarred me, what had made me beautiful, what had inspired me, what had dashed my hope. She wanted to know me. Why am I telling you all these mixed questions? Up until this point in my life, I had not felt safe enough with someone to experience the kind of relationship where I am truly known. I felt safe with her when I realized that she really wanted to know me and love me for who I was deep down inside...not just who I was on the surface, the part that was acceptable and pleasing.

So we met time and time again. She asked questions and I would talk. She would listen and respond to what she heard. She would see me and she would speak to what she saw and as the tears spilled down my face I started to see that I had a story...I am a story.

I don't think I could even begin to name the restaurants and spaces where my tears were spilled as I began to look at the pain and tragedy that laced itself throughout my story. Just as I can't name all the restaurants, couches, and rooms where my bellowing laughs, snorts, and honks resonate the walls as I rejoiced in the triumph of where I found God in my story.

In "One Tree Hill", Karen's cafe becomes the place where stories are told, life is lived, memories are made, laughter is shared, tears are shed...and the sign above the door is pictured below.

Before meeting the Johnson's, I didn't know that there was somewhere here on earth where I could experience a place where I would feel so safe...