I was on my way to do some storytelling at the primary school today when I ran into a friend, and so we walked together. And we talked about stories. I love telling stories. As often as I can, I tell stories – at open stages, at church, in schools, and always at home. But sometimes, I find it tricky.
Today, I was worried that the story I was going to tell was too difficult, too dark maybe. It ended really well, but I didn’t want the middle to scare anyone, and I knew I was going to be sharing this story at the school assembly – with four year olds and twelve year olds and everyone else, too.
The traffic lights changed and we crossed the street, letting our conversation moved on to other worries and other stories, too, and then my friend mentioned a recent Brain Pickings blog post about the best children’s books of the year. It’s the sort of list that pops up all over the place at this time of year as we look back over the year that was and look ahead to Christmas. She said that this list was worth a look at, partially for the introduction, partially for the books themselves. So this evening, with post-storytelling fatigue settling in, I took a look. And I loved it.
Blogger Maria Popova has put together a list of wonderful books with beautiful, strange illustrations, quirky, funny, tender stories, and everything is marked with courageous reality. These are books that are not afraid to talk about loneliness. Or worries. Or crying. Or where babies really come from. Or what it is like to explore Antarctica. These are books that take storytelling seriously.
Popova opens her list by quoting Maurice Sendak: “I don’t write for children. I write — and somebody says, ‘That’s for children!”
It’s a good time of year to remember that there are no such things as children’s stories.
The stories of Christmas are often treated as kiddie stuff. Soft, saccharine and sentimental, dotted with clean, woolly sheep and fluffy-winged angels. But the stories themselves are full of the best kind of courageous reality. It’s only courage that gets anyone through the angelic encounters, regardless how loudly that angel might be proclaiming “Do Not Be Afraid!” Or through pregnancy and childbirth. Or the dark nights of travel.
These stories cluster around as Advent begins. These lived realities of longing and courage.This week, the lectionary cries with Isaiah’s voice:
O that you would tear open the heavens and come down, so that the mountains would quake at your presence
That kind of cry is real.
Advent’s preparations can be beautiful (or delicious) and the traditions which mark the turning of the year are significant in our church and family life. But Advent is also a time to take the darkness seriously, too. If the darkness wasn’t serious, there would be no need for the Christ.
We need the prophets’ cries and the stories of longing. We need Elizabeth echoing Sarah and Hannah and every other mother longing for a child. We need Mary echoing Ezekiel, anticipating a day when God’s upside-down kingdom will remake the world and the poor will be fed and the proud will be brought low.
We need to hear the people long for this. Just as we long for it.
I don’t think we need to shelter our kids from that. They understand darkness. Maybe not fully adult complicated darkness, but darkness nonetheless. That’s why we invented nightlights, isn’t it? We all need a small light to teach us to trust that when things get really dark and lonely, there will be someone will be there to turn on the light.
