It’s true that life is a series of stories.
Good and bad, humorous and poignant, true life stories are the best because they’re real. They’re the ones we remember.
They’re the stories that breathe fire into our fiction.
Striking just the right balance between fact and fiction is somewhat of a mystery, and yet, when it happens it’s sublime.
I savored that thought long after I met her.
She was petite—probably about 5 feet, four inches tall. Her face was kind and mapped in wrinkles. She smiled as I entered the service area of our local post office.
“I’m in line. I just stepped over here for a minute to look at the anniversary cards.”
I returned her smile. “Oh—certainly. I’m in no hurry.”
She twirled the card rack around once more and glanced my direction. “I’m sorry. They don’t have what I’m looking for.”
“Not a problem.”
When she turned to face forward, I saw it. My goodness. All that hair.
Long, silver strands secured with black hairbands in three or four-inch sections. Hair streaked with time and so long that it touched her hips.
She must be mid-seventies—possibly nearing eighty. I’d never seen a woman her age with tresses that long
“Your hair—it’s beautiful. I’m sure you hear that a lot.”
She did an about-face. “Why, thank you. I’m donating it soon.”
“Oh. That’s wonderful.” My heart fluttered. What a kind, selfless thing for someone her age to consider.
Now, as a writer, I’m wired to listen. To be in sync with my surroundings and sensitive to stories and characters that may cross my path.
I’m also a deep-thinker, often dissecting bits and pieces of life long after folks and their tales have come and gone.
Somehow, I knew this elderly woman would be one those folks, and her story, a keeper.
Goosebumps jitterbugged down my arms. I leaned closer.
Her eyes held mine. “I had breast cancer. Yep. Surgery in 2010. I refused reconstruction though. I mean—at my age?”
Of course, I tried not to notice. That is, until she motioned toward the mismatched proportions beneath her dark gray sweatshirt.
“Yep. I have hair. And lots of it. Who needs breasts?” She paused, awaiting my reaction.
My eyes stung. Oh, Lord, what do I say?
“And that’s not all, honey. Right after the cancer, I lost a kidney.”
Lord, I could use some direction here…
“And the doctor still wants me to take pills, you see. I asked her, ‘Do I have to?’ She said, ‘You don’t have to, but I’d like for you to.’ And I told her, ‘Well then. I will.”
It was then I knew what true heroines were made of.
Not sugar and spice and everything nice. Well, maybe some of that, but more like Brillo pad strength and stainless steel resolve. Just the right combination to get the job done.
“Oh, my. You’re a very brave woman. I applaud you.”
“Oh, go on. But thank you. I have eighteen grandkids—I have to stick around a while.”
“Eighteen! Yes, that is a great incentive. Well, may God continue to bless you.”
“Honey, he already has.”
Our conversation was brief—probably less than sixty seconds—but in that dribble of time I memorized everything I could about the woman who wore a dark gray sweatshirt, blue jeans, and penny loafers. The woman with long, silver hair and four dark age spots on her careworn face. The woman who bought 100 stamps for forty-nine dollars. The woman who’d faced breast cancer and won.
When true life plays the what if card and forces our hand, those are the stories we must write.
The real ones ordained by God, crafted by us with His supernatural pen.
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PLEASE PASS IT ON
Thoughts on “story.” Have you read a good one lately?
The best stories are the ones we didn’t see coming. Like this one.
ADDITIONAL THOUGHTS YOU MAY ENJOY
When the Peonies Refused to Bloom
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Have you heard a great story lately?
What makes a story worth telling?
See you back on Friday!
Much Love and Many Blessings,
Comments 2
Bravo! Another great post. Every time I read one, I think “this is my favorite.”
Author
Julia, thank you, my friend. You humble me. So happy it blessed you!