Storyteller

Today is November 1st, which means it's All Saints Day. I spent my morning at Mass, having crepes for breakfast with some friends and walking through the gym of the school I work with where the 5th grade class dressed up as saints. Each kid shared a story about their chosen saint, and from St. Sebastian to St. Joan of Arc, I loved hearing the stories they shared.

And don't we all have a story? We're all on the path to sainthood (or at least we're trying, am I right?), and each of our stories have elements of surprise, sorrow and sanctity. Lately I've been especially excited about the turns my story has been taking, and these past few weeks it's been taking in a direction where I explore my relationship with God the Father. It's not something I consider very much. I have seen God the Father as a provider, the one who created me, a lot like my own father who always made sure I had what I needed but didn't necessarily sweep me up into his arms after a long day at work. I love Jesus, and I know his love for me. But when I pray, I don't usually have much to say to God the Father. I brought this up with my spiritual director recently, and he shared this story with me:

"I was in Jerusalem once, and they have a market that's filled with different shops. Each shop sells one item, so you have your shops for shoes, for vegetables, for bread, whatever. At the end of the day, the shops close and everyone gets ready to go home. It's very crowded. The city is divided into a few different areas by moats, and it can be tough to cross them. I was heading back to my hotel one day and there were so many people in the streets. Among the crowd I noticed a man carrying a huge plate, and on the plate was bread that smelled delicious. He had his two sons with him. The crowds were moving quickly, and the younger son got swept up into the crowd which moved him over the moat away from his father and brother. That's when I heard it:

Abba! Abba!

As quickly as possible, I saw the man hand the bread over to his older son and push his way through the people across the moat and to his younger child. He picked his son up, placed him on his shoulders and carried him back to where he belonged."

This priest spent a few of moments looking for a book or a pamphlet, anything that could help me foster a relationship with God the Father, but this was exactly the story I needed to hear. If this man was willing to drop his plate of bread that he was selling, which most likely was his source of income, and chase after his son who cried out to him, how much more willing is God the Father to come to me when I cry out to him? How likely is it that our Heavenly Father sees us when we are in trouble, runs to us and places us on his big, strong shoulders and takes us back to where we belong?

I didn't hear about what happened to the little boy and his father after he was taken back to the spot where they came from. I can imagine it, though. I can imagine that the father held his little boy a little closer; maybe he gave him a warning to stay closer and hold on to his hand next time. But the thing that stays in my mind the most was how innocently this child said, "Abba, Abba!" It was as if he knew that his Daddy would come and get him if he cried out to him. Isn't it a lesson we can all learn? I know it's one that I will hold on to in my heart.

*****

Side note: I am participating in Camp NaNoWriMo. Like I said before, we all have a story. I'm one who is blessed to have more than just one. I'll be trying my best to share more of my writing, especially during this month as I try to piece together my Great American Novel. Wish me luck!