I love telling stories. I always have. I remember writing a fiction story assigned in fifth grade. I sat at my kitchen table and scribbled furiously, so excited was I to get that plot laid down onto the page. It was a masterpiece. I was sure of it – until the next parent/teacher conference, when my teacher pulled out my story and declared it the most riveting five-page run-on sentence he had ever read. In my zeal to write the story, I had forgotten to use punctuation. 

Some stories are funny – like the now infamous story about the time I accidentally sucked up my son’s gerbil in our Shop-Vac (she lived). Or the story of the time in college when two of my passengers preyed on my gullibility and convinced me that certain stop signs are optional (I continued to obey all traffic signs, but came embarrassingly close to writing a concerned letter to my congressman).

Some stories are truly mortifying – like the story of the time that I, a northerner, thought I was ordering a cup of hot tea at a Texas diner when instead, I was ordering a twenty-four-ounce glass of iced tea, because in the south, that’s what “tea” means. Later, I was driving home at midnight, desperate to find a restroom somewhere along I-10 in Houston. I ruined my favorite shoes that night.

Some stories are exciting – like the story of the time my husband and I were hiking up to a glacier in Seward, Alaska, and found ourselves staring into the eyes of a grizzly bear, just 30 feet up the trail. The bear chose to pass up an easy lunch, loped straight up the mountain, and left us in awe.

Some stories are instructive – like the story I tell my sons of the time a friend absentmindedly threw an apple core out my car window, unaware of the police cruiser traveling behind us. The officer pulled us over and threatened me with a $100 ticket, my friend was less than respectful, and I was suddenly very aware of the need to be more careful when choosing my friends.

Some stories conjure up special memories – like the story of when my high school marching band performed the United States national anthem on the Great Wall of China.

Some stories never get told.

They’re not funny or embarrassing or exciting or instructive or memorable in any special way.

They’re painful.

And we just can’t.

I’ve been thinking about that since I read the book Secrets She Kept by Cathy Gohlke.  It’s a story about a woman, estranged from her mother, who is sent on a journey to discover her mother’s past. It’s a fiction novel, but it spoke to me a universal truth about the secrets people keep – stories they cannot share because of the pain, the hurt, the shame – and the relationships that suffer as a result.

But sometimes, we just…can’t.

That trip to China, on which I played my trumpet on the Great Wall, was the first time a story, never before told in any level of detail, slowly began to reveal itself to me. I was seventeen and angry that my father wouldn’t buy me a car like many of the cars lining up in the student lot at my high school. Instead, he had set aside a little red 1981 Toyota Tercel for me. That little nugget of a car held no appeal, and I refused it. I refused to learn how to drive a stick shift, so that I couldn’t possibly be expected to take ownership of that car. And I dug in my heels, naively thinking that if I couldn’t drive that old car, my parents would most certainly have to buy me a new one.

Then came the summer of ‘87.

My high school marching band had been invited by the Chinese government for a cultural exchange. My parents accompanied us as chaperones; my father took on the role of translator. It was his first time back to China since he had left it twenty-odd years before. I was annoyed and embarrassed by how visibly excited he was. My friends told me to let him enjoy the experience. I worried about my reputation.

It was the first trip I’d ever made to my father’s homeland. He had rarely talked about it. I had little knowledge of the life he had lived growing up and I had no appreciation for what he’d endured. All I knew was that he had been orphaned at age 5 and that, having grown up during the Cultural Revolution, he had his own special version of the saying, “When I was your age I had to walk 6 miles to school in the snow, barefoot, uphill, both ways.” But I didn’t understand it. I hadn’t heard enough of his story. I’m not sure I would have been mature enough to handle it if I had.

The band traveled to and performed in multiple cities. When we arrived in Shanghai, my parents and I peeled off from the group during free time so Dad could take Mom and me to the alley where he grew up.

That got my attention.

Then he introduced me to his aunt, the woman who had raised him from age five until he left the country as a teen.

That sweet woman arrived at our hotel with steaming breakfast buns every morning we were in town. She sat in a chair and talked with my dad, speaking only Chinese, and nodding and smiling at me. I learned that her job was to guard bicycle parking lots, for which she received seventy-five cents per day. On our last day, after chatting with my dad, she grabbed my hand, opened it, and filled it with a crumpled wad of cash – a gift.  I looked down, did a quick count, and realized that she had just handed me the Chinese equivalent of $20 dollars – almost a full month’s wages. I panicked as I realized that her gift equated to nothing more than pizza and a movie for me. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t reject it. But I couldn’t accept it. I turned to my father for advice and, for the first time ever, saw him cry. His voice gruff, he said, “Keep it. I’ll make it right.” Then auntie motioned for me to walk her to the elevator. She got on, turned, and said in the only broken English she’d used all week, “Your father…good man.” The doors closed. I sobbed.

I went home to California, learned how to drive a stick shift, and washed and waxed that little red car religiously until its retirement, so profound was my heart change.

That was only the beginning. A few years later, my aunt, thinking I already knew the whole of my father’s story, unwittingly mentioned another chapter, deepening my understanding. And even just a few weeks ago, I read a draft of a book she recently finished, filling me in on our history even more, and breaking my heart even further. It’s a story not easily told, but one that brings the depth of my understanding of my family’s internal workings and relationships to a level that is precious to me. I’m not sure I would have been able to hear it way back then, but I certainly cherish it now.

My father read my aunt’s book, too. In reading it, he realized that there were things she knew about their mother’s life that he had never told her, hoping to protect her from the grief. They discovered that they both knew the stories, but never talked about them, so great was their mutual desire to protect each other from the grief. A great catharsis happened that day, decades in the making.

Those stories…the painful ones…occupy precious places in our hearts. They’re tucked away, protected from harm; sometimes hidden to protect others from harm. Some are never told.

It’s in the telling of our stories, even the painful ones, that great catharsis and connection can occur. I experienced that recently with a friend grappling with the current state of race relations in this country. Looking at my pale, white skin, she had no reason to know that I could connect, at least in small part, with her story. So I told her. I told her that I have never experienced what she has experienced on the profound level that she has experienced it. But I told her that back during my grad school days, a guy in Waco, Texas threw a fit after dancing with me at Midnight Rodeo and later finding out my maiden name was Lie (pronounced “Lee”). He could not believe that his friend had let him touch a Chinese girl.

One week after telling her my story, my friend was at my house. We spent four hours connecting on a level we may never otherwise had, if not for the mutual telling of our stories.

But those stories aren’t for everyone. There’s a reason we guard them. It’s not always safe to reveal what’s nearest and dearest to our hearts.

Even Jesus had practical advice to give on that point. He used some pretty graphic language and he was talking about matters of faith. But I love the principle as it can apply to whatever is nearest and dearest to our hearts.

In Matthew 7:6, Jesus is recorded as teaching:

“Do not give dogs what is sacred; do not throw your pearls to pigs. If you do, they may trample them under their feet and turn and tear you to pieces.” (NIV)

He’s telling us not to put our most cherished matters of faith out there when the people we are talking to are vehemently opposed to hearing the message. The day I understood that verse was a freeing day for me. And then I realized the brilliance of the message and the broad scope of application in that wisdom. There’s a time to share our hearts. And there’s a time to hold what’s dearest to our hearts close. Not every story is the right story to tell anyone or everyone.  But at some point, there’s a good chance that someone in your life will be greatly encouraged to hear what you have tucked in your heart. As you share it, your relationship will almost surely be taken to a level of depth you have not experienced together before.

If you have a story tucked away, be encouraged. It is wise to protect it. But it is equally wise to courageously share it when you discover the potential to encourage a weary heart and connect with a kindred spirit.

We are living in complicated times. We often speak at each other instead of conversing with each other. We have a tendency to use platitudes that hold some measure of truth, but which often fail to pierce through to our hearts. Let’s start sharing our hearts, one by one, with the people closest to us who need encouragement, connection, and relationship most. Whether you’re sitting with me in the bleachers at a basketball game, sharing a cup of coffee with me at a nearby café, or simply sending a message via facebook or email, I’d love to hear your story.  Chances are, you are a kindred spirit, and I’d love to get to know you more.

“Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouth, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.”  Ephesians 4:29, NIV