The Stories We Tell

Photo Credit: Andrea Lingle

By Courtney Dernier

One. That’s how many all-nighters I’ve pulled. And it wasn’t even to study or complete a project. No, it was to finish a book. Not one assigned for school, mind you; this was a pleasure read. Because the Courtney version of fun is a nine-hour reading marathon. That’s right: the one time I chose to sacrifice an entire night’s worth of precious sleep (this was before I had children and realized just how finite a resource sleep could be) it was to devour a book. And really, I can’t be the only one out there who read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows in one sitting. After all, no one can resist a good story. 

Whether we realize it or not, stories (especially the good ones) train us to see ourselves as the center of every ongoing narrative. How do I fit into this issue, how do I feel about this controversy, how does this affect me? My love for stories spurred me toward teaching. After all, what vocation says “I’m the center of this story” more than one in which I could literally guide students through the process of interpreting narrative structure? Every class period of every day was about how the individual—and that individual’s growth—changed the meaning of the story. Characters grow. And their narratives evolve.

My role as a teacher became part of my core, or so I thought. But now, after five years in education, I have settled into my new role as a stay-at-home-mom. And I’m still surrounded by stories. More so now, in fact, than ever before. But now, for the first time in my life, I’m no longer the main character.  

The shift from “foremost-a-teacher” to “foremost-a-mom” was hard. I felt my “self” eroding, and, subsequently, I felt lost. As a planner and Type A personality, leaving the “known” realm of teaching in favor of the fluid “unknown” of day-to-day parenting was difficult; I needed time to lament my past purpose and my past context. I began to think there was a silhouette where there used to be substance. But my narrative had not faced its denouement; rather, it had evolved. And what I had imagined to be an oppressive obscurity was actually a divine blessing. The uncertainty had led me to certainty, leading me to the divine image within myself. 

We often hear periods of transition described in the language of chapters: “a new chapter is opening in my life,” “I’ve closed that chapter of my story,” etc. All people, in their own distinct contexts, can see this point of view. Transition is ubiquitous; growth is a defining trait of all beings. So, as I attempt to solidify my footing during this transition, I am reminded that Creation is transitioning alongside me. People’s roles are evolving. My role is evolving. Creation is not suddenly in need of empathy, or attention to small businesses, or listening intently to voices that have long been suppressed; these needs have always been part of the story. The narrative is not contingent upon the characters’ recognition of it. 

As these varied, multitudinous characters, we grow. We interweave. We engage. And our narrative evolves.