
How do you begin writing a story that you are in the middle of living out? Like our collective lives, I am not sure where this story will end. Where will it make a convenient pause when I can reflect and capture all of the beauty and sorrow to share? I haven’t written much in the last three years outside my personal journal and posting to social media for family & friends. These hodge-podge entries, however, are forming a pattern, a trajectory. I think it’s as good a time as any to start writing this story for others to read. I feel I must share how the sorrow in my life became the soil in which a new life opened towards the warmth of a summer morning sun.
The social media trend of ‘main character energy’ or ‘romanticizing your life’ are not merely hubristic ideas. Each human soul needs to be centered in grander stories, about where they come from and where they are going, how they should act with nobility and accept consequences for falling short. Stories provide agency as much as they provide wisdom. We look to our ancestors for their failures and triumphs; while we will never repeat their life verses, we can rhyme & harmonize, joining in the grander storyline as uniquely us.
If you truly want to live out your story, you first have to believe that what you do and say matters in a profound way. No one lives in a void; all that we offer in this life comes in contact with others. Even the monastic who withdraws and may not speak for days to any other person, knows their work is a spiritual battle on behalf of the whole world. Whenever I come across photos of a 90 year old babushka or bunica, having lived out her entire life in one mountain village, I see a venerable soul whom God hears most closely. Through their prayers, our world holds together. They know their ‘main character energy’ is most powerful through humility, in loving the place God put them.
There was a pivotal moment in my life where I knew that every action and word was a reflection of who I was and who I hoped to become. The old story line I had scripted for myself tore apart. If I fell into anger, bitterness, and resentment, I would become just as ugly as the villain in my story. I made the conscious decision to take the knife out of my back and destroy it so no one else would be hurt. The ring must be flung into the volcano; the sword must be shattered. New story lines need fresh paper and good ink.
Main character energy is fully aware of and submissive to the needs of all other characters. Everyone is listening and watching. All the world is a stage and it isn’t primarily digital. No pressure! Of course we all fail and we can’t control others’ perceptions of us, even if we skillfully craft a personal brand across all platforms. Ultimately, our consciences before God are what we can keep clean. We need others to guide, to catch, to speak, to feed, to restore. Living out a story means there are not all bad guys out there; we have to approach the world with trust that good hearted people still know how to give of themselves for others. We have to trust people and sometimes have that trust betrayed or we are going to fail at living in a story at all.
The best part of stepping into the story called life is that you do not have to pretend it is something else to make it better. You are not a princess or a knight or a hobbit, however useful they are as worthy metaphors and allegories. You are the only you to exist, ever. How exciting is that? This is why I love Orthodox saints so dearly – every life is so firmly rooted in their place and time, their actions a unique response to what was required, which is why we remember them. Each lifetime is fraught with challenges, long stretches of boredom, bright flashes of creativity or achievement.
The exciting element is we don’t know how it will all turn out. You may also say it is God’s mercy that very few are granted foresight. We couldn’t bear the suffering or fully relish the joy if we knew what was coming.
We sing ‘God grant you many years’ to other Orthodox Christians on their birthdays or wedding anniversaries because we pray for more joy and growth in each other, not merely an extension to years. Growth in our spiritual journey towards God only occurs through repentance, the constant tripping over our own feet and getting back up again. God grants us time to learn how to walk a little ways further towards His light and away from our brokenness. Our days blur into busyness, the prayers become perfunctory, the seasons turn again and again, yet, if we step back, we see the gradations of holiness soaking into our lives. We become a little softer around the edges, a little more patient, a little more generous, as a pillared stalagmite forms on a cave floor, a few mineral rich drops at a time.
I turn back to my life’s paper and will do my best to describe the brushstrokes as they add up into a story worth telling. I’d be delighted if you listened and offered your experiences, too.











As with many working Orthodox folks, I try to use the 15 minutes in the morning while I eat toast to read an uplifting section of literature. Now, at 6:00 am, this sinks down into my subconscious mind like crumbs from the toast into the bottom of my tea cup. If you ask me at noon what I had read, 50/50 chance I wouldn’t readily remember. I keep at it with the hopes some of the benefit will ‘stick’ better than jam on my fingers.
As an archivist, I was, and still am, fascinated with how people are remembered in the future. A few years ago, I had the unique privilege of working with a large mass of personal & professional papers from a single influential family in a small town. Their ancestors had lived in the same house for over 140 years and their attic was a proverbial treasure trove. They didn’t throw away anything that pertained to themselves – they just stashed it upstairs! I discovered the intricacies of relationships, like a play unfolding before me in the scraps of silverfish nibbled paper. Local historians know their cast of characters but we often do not understand how they behaved towards each other or what they liked to eat. Finding these tidbits of memories was like panning for gold in the dusty boxes from an antebellum brick house on Main Street.