{Thank you to my dear friend, Denise, for this guest post. Keep reading for the give away at the end of the post!}
Writing a book and birthing a baby seem to be a pretty common comparison. And now I see why. Being the clever person that I am, I have tried to come up with a better analogy—mainly to get the visual of “that face” out of my mind—you know the one of the woman being told just one more push. Try as I might, I can’t seem to find one that communicates all the components and emotions quite as well.
Candace was the first person outside my family that I gave a book to. She was the first person I trusted with my baby. I knew that she was gentle and kind and encouraging. I knew that if she had to tell me it was terrible, she would do it with so much grace, I would probably not even realize she was doing it. Candace is a nice person and a good friend.
As it turns out, I think she may have liked it, since she came back to buy ten more and invited me to share about it on her blog.
My baby, Little Cabin on the Trail, is my attempt at convincing people to be intentional about making meaningful memories and to be intentional about becoming their family storytellers. Our personal stories have great value and are the glue that connects generations.
I do realize that some of you are just trying to make it through the day with little ones, and you probably don’t care about generation-connecting at this point. That’s okay. You may just need to think of your stories as the glue that keeps your children in their seats at the dinner table. Yep, start telling stories about your childhood, and I guarantee a captive audience.
The book breaks down the process in true storytelling fashion. I share a lot of my own family tales that have the potential to make you laugh or cry or both. We’ve traveled the roads of adventure, faith, and even grief. And we’ve met many colorful people along the way. Oh, don’t go thinking we are anything special, because we are just as ordinary as the next family.
As a matter of fact, one of my ordinary children told me this year that he hated Christmas. What? After I just wrote and published a book where I touted the benefits and importance of family traditions? He made me wish I had not been quite so generous with my compliments of his achievements in the chapter entitled “Family Fodder.”
No sense expounding on that subject. Let’s move on to the chapter, “Extreme Faith,” where I share the importance of setting up some memorial stones to remind our families when God came through for us in big ways. An excerpt:
This chapter is about storytelling that is the result of serious risk-taking, not the in-the-moment-take-a-chance kind where not much is at stake. Serous risk-taking is usually preceded by serious prayer and planning as well as some serious nail-biting. It can be compared to the Israelites crossing the Red Sea on dry land. When it is over, you are given the opportunity and, I think, the responsibility to to set up some memorial stones for your future generations.
Referring to this section of my book, a reader recently sent the following question:
“I hate to sound unspiritual, so I humbly ask . . . What do you mean by ‘memorial stones’?”
I told her to read Joshua 4 where the Israelites had just crossed the Jordan River on dry ground, and Joshua instructed them to take twelve stones from the river bed to make a memorial.
And he said to the people of Israel, “When your children ask their fathers in times to come, ‘What do these stones mean?’ then you shall let your children know, ‘Israel passed over this Jordan on dry ground.’ For the Lord your God dried up the waters of the Jordan for you until you passed over, as the Lord your God did to the Red Sea, which he dried up for us until we passed over, so that all the peoples of the earth may know that the hand of the Lord is mighty, that you may fear the Lord your God forever.” (verses 21-24)
I don’t know about you, but I think the timing of Joshua’s idea was both brilliant (it was a lot easier to gather the rocks while the river bed was dry) and a little discouraging (he was assuming that they would need to be reminded of such a great event).
I don’t think I would have needed a pile of rocks to remember to talk about a thing like the sea being parted.
And yet . . .
I have forgotten.
I have forgotten to tell my children many things—important things.
I have forgotten to tell my children of times when God has provided, comforted, directed, forgiven . . . I have neglected to tell them the God stories that make our family unique, stories that grew out of love and faith and hardship and everyday life.
Sometimes we do need to stop and pick up those stones and make those memorials. Sometimes we need to be reminded to tell those stories. Because just like in the times of Joshua, our God stories are this generation’s memorial stones. They will be what waters the seeds of hope in our children’s hearts for years to come.
When we go to visit the real Little Cabin on the Trail in Damascus, Virginia, we almost always walk along the creek looking for treasures: broken pieces of bottles, plates, cups, and whatever that have traveled downstream. Every single item carries with it a piece of the past. Unlike at the beach where such treasures are scarce, we’ve collected enough of the smooth, colorful creek glass to fill many jars. I can only imagine the lives of the Appalachian people that are represented by each piece.
Those pieces of glass also represent the faithfulness of God in our lives. They have become my memorial stones, giving testimony of a time when God came through for us when our hearts were so broken that we doubted they would ever heal. They remind me how we came to own the Little Cabin on the Trail and how the book of the same name grew to be what it is.
I don’t think I will ever tire of the hunt—even if I fill 12 jars. Because I love being reminded and I need to be reminded that “the hand of the Lord is mighty.” And in years to come, I hope my children and their children will look at those jars and be reminded to tell the story of when God parted the sea for our family.
And just in case they do forget, I wrote about it in my book.
Denise Mahr Voccola is a dear friend of mine. She has spent her life bravely walking the balance beam between responsible and crazy in her quest to make meaningful, storytelling-worthy memories with her family. Three generations of her family share a historic home in Morristown, Tennessee. She and her two daughters, Kelly and Tessa, also share a blog home, Fifty Seventy Ninety. You can also see pictures from each chapter of her book on this page.
Give Away Details
This give away is now closed! Congrats to Morgan, Debbie and Kristina!