The Story

Most of us don't consider ourselves to be writers.  However, each of us is actually writing his or her life story every day. Perhaps not with pen and ink, or even with a keyboard, but we are still writing all the time ... with our lives. We don't have to write it down. We don't even have to open our mouths. But we are still communicating constantly.  Whether we are making big choices about careers or relationships or causes, or seemingly small choices like changing lanes on the freeway, calculating the tip at a restaurant or when an how we'll return a phone call, every choice tells something about who we are, and often affects other people. Are you cheap person, the late person, the thoughtful person? Do you take time to listen and make other people feel valued? Are you the one who drives fast and cuts everyone off because your time and schedule are more important, or because you made poor time management choices earlier that caused you to be late? Are you the spouse, parent, sibling, child or friend who blesses others or who makes their lives more complicated? Are you the nice boss or the mean boss, the gossiper or the encourager, the mom or dad who could never get to family commitments? Do you have a temper or a knack for making hurtful remarks? Think of the last thing you said to each of the important people in your lives. Would you want that to be your final words to them, the words they would be left with if you were suddenly gone? Have we succeeded in work or earned other accolades at the expense of letting down our families or friends or coworkers? And what about our faith? Have we truly lived out what we believe? Or is there a gap between our professions and our actions that causes others to stumble or question what we actually believe. The list goes on and on.

You see, our story isn't just what we might put in our resumes or our memoirs. How would other people write our stories? What about the people at home and at work and at church, and at clubs or parties? And would all their stories match up, or would some of them be asking, "Hey, are we talking about the same person?"  The point is that each of us is writing a story with their lives, a story as distinctive as a fingerprint. What's your story? Did you leave a tangible trail of joy and kindness and generosity, or something else. What choices are you going to make to change your story for the better today? It’s never too late to change your story. And the most amazing, exciting, encouraging thing in all the world is the blank page of life that God give us each day to write our stories upon.  

The Story

Every life tells a story

Regardless of what we intend

The kind of life we choose to live

Will be our testament in the end

Whatever may be our intentions

Whatever our lofty words

Our choices will be set in stone

And their story will be heard

Our triumphs and our failures

And our apparent priorities

The way we treated other people

This are our legacy

So each day we write the story

That others will read someday

Each day shows who we really are

So we must guard what our lives say

Yes, each life tells a story

Will we live poorly, or well

For each of us must choose each day

The story we want our lives to tell

            By Frank Carpenter ©

Gone But Not Forgotten

Some thoughts today on the cherished memories of some men who have departed my life during years past. We all deal with loss and pain in different ways and my system for processing complicated emotions is to write about them. This works for me because I am a slow thinker of sorts and use the retrospective tool of creative writing to wander through my memories and thoughts and make sense of them at my own speed and in my own time. Part of that process is the revisiting of specific themes and events to repaint them through the dearly bought wisdom of hindsight. Since my thoughts eventually congeal into the written word it has also been rewarding to discover that many others have used my writings to help sort out and communicate their own experiences as well. In a sense, it’s a gift that keeps on giving.

To that end, I offer today’s poem which I wrote some years ago on the anniversary of the passing of a dear friend’s father whom I was close to as well. Incidentally, he passed away during his stay at a convalescent home where my own father had lived for some time as well. Yes, it’s a true story and I really did write the poem while sitting in the little patio at that facility. I hope some of you may find some relevant solace or wisdom in my words or pass this on to others who may have need of it. I also encourage readers to call, write or visit those in their own lives who may be in just such a situation. Folk in convalescent homes live for your calls and visits. And remember that you are the owner, caretaker, and defender of your memories ... and sometimes they need a little maintenance as well.

Gone, But Not Forgotten
I stopped by the convalescent home for a little while today
Where I paused to sit and think a spell, since it was on my way
I’ve had no one to visit here, these past twelve months or so
But that doesn’t seem to matter like it did a year ago
Because I still cherish memories of those who once dwelt here
Which I intend to honor with the passing of the years
I must confess their tenure here was bittersweet at best
As a final, unforgiving stop before they were laid to rest
Restless they, and sick those men who once resided here
When I came to visit them in hopes of offering some cheer
And while the passing time diminishes the acuteness of their loss
Each week brings some small memory to remind me of the cost
Associated with their passing, in wisdom or camaraderie
Or wealth of anecdotal wisdom, wrapped up in my own history
For when we lose a friend or father or some special relative
We lose a puzzle piece of life which only they could give
Time tends to heal the pain of loss and sweeten cherished memories
Yet sometimes we need to ponder them as I have through this reverie
Which brings me back to this place, where old friends have passed away
Gone, but not forgotten … as I’m reminded here today
By Frank Carpenter ©