For the last three and a half months, Barry has been on sabbatical, traveling through Turkey, Greece, Italy, Switzerland, Boston, New York, (I probably missed a location or two) and back to his hometown in Michigan. Since he was south of us just an hour, he thought he would come up to stay with us for one night. Yesterday we hopped in the car as I showed him around my world a little, and as we did, he told me all about his sabbatical.
I love the way Barry tells stories. I heard about Spello and Assisi in vivid detail; Barry spoke slowly and calmly, painting patient and detailed word pictures. Before I knew it, I was walking down narrow
side streets in an old Italian hillside city, looking through shop windows and smelling the cooking. I heard the laughter of Claretian sisters over a glass of wine in a small kitchen. I felt the gentle breeze coming from the sunset over the Umbrian valley as I was gazing at the olive and apple trees in the garden below the window.
How often do tellers guard their stories, afraid to expose them to impatient ears? How often do hearers let stories pass by, uninterested in exploring or sympathizing? Had Barry rushed, wary of our attention spans, I would have missed a wonderful experience. But he didn't rush. Barry has the courage to let his story breathe, fueling my imagination with images and sounds and sights and feelings and smells. Barry, Rachel and I lingered long after our dinner was cleared. We had nowhere to be; we were simply present with one another.
Everyone has a story, and if I choose to take the time, I can do more than listen. I can enter into a person's story with all of my senses and be present with them. I can share their joys and adventures, even their deep pain. The human imagination is God's indispensable gift.
The stories of Jesus in the Gospel have life and breath, and if I let them breathe slowly and presently on me, my imagination burns with wonder. I gaze at Jesus. I get to know what He is like. That's all it takes, and I am falling in love.
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