Re-Storied

I was talking with someone who has gotten to know Brenda and me over the past several months.  The fact that I had been previously married came up in our conversation.  So she asked me about Anne, her life and her dying.  I shared a bit about that chapter in my life.  Our friend said, "I know that's all true about you.  But it's hard for me to imagine you married to someone else.  All I know is you and Brenda.  And that just seems like how it's always been."

For her that was indeed true.  That is how it's always been--for as long as she has known us.  For all that time, for her, it's been Brenda and me.  That other chapter of life is more like fiction for our friend than reality.  And that must be how it is for many people in our lives now.  They know we've had these other chapters in our lives, but those years were not part of their history.  So those years seem more like story than history to them.

I have been thinking about this dynamic.  For those of us who knew and loved Anne, those memories are hooked to an indelible reality.  For others, it all seems like a novel or a movie.  But even for me the memories begin to take on that historical quality as life continues forward.

If you read my weekend sermon posted in earlier blogs here, you might have noticed that I described some of our story in the third person rather than in the first person.  I did that intentionally for several reasons.  

First, the time is past when I can really stand much stranger sympathy.  I'm not describing what other people do.  I'm grateful for their care.  But I don't get much out of those "I'm so sorry" expressions anymore.  Rather, I start to feel like I'm using a sad story to just manipulate people's feelings for effect.  I don't want to be that guy any longer.

Second, that history does feel more and more like a story that happened to someone else.  I think that's part of the impact of time passing.  I have to discipline myself not to feel guilty about that natural and normal change in perception.  I am not forgetting Anne and our thirty-one years together. However, I am getting some distance from that life.  And I have a full, joyful, blessed and challenging life with Brenda here and now.

Third, that sort of third-person perspective is actually more healing in some ways than the white-hot intensity of first-person descriptions.  Those psychologists who engage in narrative bereavement therapy encourage their clients to write things in the third person sometimes as a way to get some helpful distance.  

There is a great deal to be said for stepping back in order to move forward, for stepping away in order to get a clearer view of the larger picture.  Third-person descriptions of first-person experiences can allow us to take those steps.

In fact, getting some critical distance from my own story is a way to engage in deeper self-empathy.  One of the chief characteristics of empathy is the ability to get the perspective of another.  If I am too close to another's pain, I will be stuck with sympathy--a far less useful emotion.  If I can step back from my self and my own story, then I can indeed do a better job of really caring for myself.

It is a story from another time--another life.  But it's still a really good story.  I am doubly blessed to have been part of that amazing first story, and now to be writing a magnificent new story with my beloved Brenda.  Thank you, God!