Trust in the Old Stories

I trust in the old stories.

You know: stories like stones our ancestors swallowed, hurled, clutched against their breasts.

Like the Red Sea Parted, the Storm, the Ark. (Grieve for the drowned; rejoice for the people redeemed).

Like Esther's "in such a time as this." (Be brave. Love your enemy. Save your people).

Like Mary and Joseph, homebound and homeless. (Open the gate, the inn, the stable, your own warm home. Whisper, Come in, come in).

Or else: They deserved it. It's not my problem. I don't know what to do.

The mother chokes on tear gas and smoke. I slink away like the wise men while the king plots...

You know: The journey to Egypt. The mothers weeping.

Years later: Mary and Joseph panicking: they've lost him.

The woman at the well, telling her secrets in the midday heat.

The Prodigal Son. The Good Samaritan. What we do (or don't do) for the least of these.

Some stories you're sure you have to throw away, but I'm telling you: don't.

There's the baby, and the bathwater.

There's the stone, the two birds, the prophet, the adulteress, the witch.

Trust in the old stories, stones our ancestors swallowed, hurled, clutched against their breasts.

There's the choice we can make to aim them instead at our own breakable hearts.




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