"I Bet You Have a Story"

I walk beside Gitch (a.k.a. Lake Superior) so often that I’ve begun to recognize the regulars. There’s the tall man who always seems to be walking into a big wind, even on the calmest of days.

There’s the couple who looks like they’ve been married 60 years and still appear bemused, delighted even, with the world and each other.

And then there’s the bald man whose tats map his open skin and whose pit mix wears a spike collar and is always off leash.

I’ll admit it my reaction when I first saw the two of them was to be on guard. What will dog and man do?

But the guy always greets me with a big smile and kind eyes, and so far, his dog has never tried to make a snack out of Alfred.

“Is your dog okay with other dogs?” he asked me one day this week.

“He is,” I said. But is yours??

“This is Biscuit,” he said. “The collar’s a joke, because she’s as sweet as can be.”

Well, there was a little hackle raising on Biscuit’s end, but only because Alfred wanted to jump up and lick her eyeballs, just like he did with Rufus, my old dog who died a couple of years ago.

While the two dogs did their dance of hey and oooooh, anal glands! the man and I talked.

I learned his name was Burt and that he worked as a therapist in prisons and psych wards. “What I’m trying to get these men to understand is that their new chapter starts now. Doesn’t matter if the ex comes back or if they win their case. It’s all about hope now. Hope with purpose.”

I wondered if he knew a statue with Hope etched in her right wing stood right behind the two of us.

I often offer her blossoms and pine cones as I pass by. So do others.

“That is such important work,” I said, knowing I couldn’t even begin to imagine what stories he must have heard—the pain, the violence, the despair.

“It is,” he said, and his humility was palpable.

I asked if he had any plans for the day. He said he had to get the air conditioner fan in his car fixed and that he planned to attend church that night with friends. “Are you a believer?”

Oh.

I proceeded with caution. “I went to seminary to be a pastor, but I have a complicated relationship with the divine.” I paused, “But yes, I believe there is a Big Energy that wants the Good for us.”

He looked at me—his eyes clear, and again, the word I kept coming back to was kind.

This was no zealot.

No, “You will suffer in the fires of hell!”

No, “My God is sword and tank. I will cut you down and run you over with my Truth.”

Burt lifted his ball cap off his bald head before returning it into its place. “What people don’t know is that Christ Jesus can always change their story for the better.” He paused. “You know, I bet you have a story.”

I smiled. I do, Burt, and I bet you do, too. “It was really nice meeting you, Burt. And Biscuit. I hope you have a good day at work.”

As I walked on, the phrase that came to me was “the scandal of particularity.” It’s something I learned back in seminary, and it’s what theologians use to describe Jesus—he became a particular human with a particular story. One filled with donkey manure and dead men, healing and love.

It is what makes the story so compelling—and so dangerous. That particular story has become weaponized, and people are literally dying because of it.

But love, faith, hope—they all begin with particulars. This dog. This sunrise. For that old couple I often pass—this man, this woman.

We want to be loved, cherished for our thisness. And to put a fine point on it—it is in the nitty gritty that we experience the shit and the miracle.

And yet the danger is, if we stay in the particular, we stay small.

I only love what I know.

Or What I believe is what is right and everything else is wrong and should be feared, condemned, destroyed.

So it is right and good to move from the particular to the universal. Are we really going to argue that there is only one path up the Mountain?

And yet if we always stay with the universal, it’s like living a zamboni life. Everything is so rhetorically smooth, nothing Real sticks.

As usual, I don’t have any answers, but I do have a way forward. When I meet someone, especially someone who might be different, what if I begin with Burt’s wisdom: I bet you have a story.

It probably wouldn’t hurt to be humble, real, and have eyes that are kind.

And see the Hope standing behind everything.