I’ve been reading a book by singer-songwriter Andrew Peterson called “God of the Garden.” In it, he shares stories and insights from his life in various parts of the south-eastern United States. The book is rich in description and culture.
In one chapter, Peterson describes the land where he and his wife built a home and he lists the types of trees he planted there. Cedar, Dogwood, Maple, Birch. White Oak, American Elm, Sugarmaple, Red Oak. He continues listing. Ash, Black Walnut, Eastern White Pine, Sweetgum. Listening to the audiobook, I began to laugh. He lists possibly twenty types of trees!
Not only did this little passage show me that Andrew Peterson really likes trees and knows a lot about them. It spoke to me about something else. The details of our lives matter. Did I need to know all the types of trees he planted? No. Could he have just said, “and I planted lots of trees”? Sure.
But something about it delighted me, and this was the point. It made me slow down, it made me think longer about the beauty and variety of trees than probably ever before. I never realized how many there are, here in the south-eastern U.S. alone. And it gave me a glimpse into someone else’s life, something that was important to another person.
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I remember, in my early 20s, hanging out in groups of friends as an insecure girl who hadn’t yet discovered her own potence. I would try to impress them by crafting my anecdotes as succinctly and hilariously as possible, with all the pressure of a comedy show writer trying to sell millions.
I remember the frustration and embarrassment of a story “gone wrong” when the punchline fell flat and was met with a subtle scoff while the conversation shifted in a different direction. And I remember the sigh of relief when I found friends who didn’t need me to be flashy or interesting at every moment, who wanted to know about my day just because they cared about me.
This is the kind of attentiveness I want to give to others now. I want to give my undistracted presence, listening to whatever details they want to share about their lives. I love when I ask a friend, “what did you do today?” and they begin with, “Well, I ate breakfast and talked to my husband for a while, then I went to the grocery store…”
Because it matters.
Our stories, even the ones without a punchline, are beautiful and speak of the value of our lives to God, how precious we are as human beings. God is in the details.
Telling about our lives invites others to see themselves in our stories and to share their own. Listening is a way to love each other.
In Danny Gregory’s book, “The Creative License,” he includes lots of drawings of real things throughout his life. Some are large, detailed, and colored-in, like a drawing of his wife or a cityscape. Some are tiny two-minute sketches. A shoe, a half eaten sandwich scribbled into one corner.
In this book, Gregory talks about how drawing changed his life, not only making him a better artist but also providing him a way to celebrate every moment and be present. It forced him to actually look at things, their textures, their details, their undefinable colors.
When you tell a story of your life, you are giving weight to that moment. Or rather, you are acknowledging the weight of that moment. You are saying, “My life matters and so does yours. The tiny flecks of light as well as the blazing suns.”