Stuck in the Mind
Now we come to the finer points of waiting out a hot…did I say hot? Make that a miserable day of extreme heat.
But I had no right to gripe. I got to spend it at the river, plunging in to cool off when I wanted. Nicole was easily the happiest member of our party, swimming, watching the boats, even napping in the porta-crib with sweat beaded on her face. My Dad, on the other hand—
But I’ll get to that in a minute.
We had high hopes of rescue every time a group of canoe and kayakers rallied to the chore of delivering us from the river. And that was often. The Buffalo National River is almost a mandatory pilgrimage for those who love paddle boats. And since it was summer and high season, an unending stream of boats nosed past us while our pickup dangled its slipper in the river’s main channel.
So how many canoeists did it take to lever us out of the water? I can tell you the magic wasn’t in two or three or even four additional sets of biceps. The legend gets a little hazy at this point. I chalk that up to that honest fish tale phenomenon mentioned earlier. While I’m sure it was ten who couldn’t lift the rear of the truck, my husband remembers it as at least eight.
With the truck resting on its belly, and the water deeper just off the right rear fender, those trying to muscle it upward stood low enough that they had to lift from the chest, unable to get their legs into it. My father was cautious too, not allowing anyone to get into a position that had a potential for danger. He didn’t want anyone swept under the truck or to have it fall on them.
After many attempts, my dad accepted the commission for a of a six mile slog through the Arkansas jungle to Morning Star in one hundred plus degree heat to get a tow truck . The fortunate got to spend the next several hours politely rebuffing all the high school youth who passed in their flotillas, assuring them that stronger men than they had already failed to evict the truck from the river.
The question is: why is repeating this adventure something of a family tradition? Why any story? Quirky details or hyped emotions might decide which stories we choose to tell, but they don’t explain our need to tell them.
I think storytelling reminds us who we are. Our lives are in a constant state of change as we grow, leave families, and make new connections and relationships. And the future will bring more changes.
Stories about our life link us to a fixed moment in time—something we can hold on to.
We spend most of our lives focused on the next thing—what we have to do, where we’re going. A Yoda quote puts it like this: “Never his mind on where he was—what he was doing.” Yoda taught that real life is not in a future that may not even happen. It inhabits the moment in which you find yourself—in other words, the now.
In that case, some might counter, stories about the past would be equally pointless
I disagree here When we tell a story, we slow down the motion picture of our life and get a freeze frame of a real moment—the people, the detail, the emotion, everything. We capture a little slice of life that continues to breathe. In telling our stories, we affirm that the puzzle pieces of our lives are important, not just the completed work.
And because we rightly make plans for the future, and look forward to our life with Christ, It is right to plant our feet deep in the life we are living. As we honor the past and the future we affirm the eternal nature of our souls. We affirm that God has been good, he is good, and he will be good.
Thankful to have hitched a ride the last few miles, my dad returned only half melted. With no tow trucks available he accepted help from a jeep owner who promptly got stuck himself in our thick bottomland sand. The driver had to wench both his truck and ours, one at a time, in a piecemeal fashion through a hundred yards of seasonally flooded ground.
Our river crossing was not an almost. With the boggy sand that awaited us we never came close to making it.
It would be great if all our stories were heroic and inspiring…or would it?
We’re seldom heroic people, after all. Things often go wrong. Even if its only the little stuff. (Don’t get me started on the farina again.)
But our stories still have the power to unite. In remembering them we frame our relationships and connect generations. But only if we are faithful to tell them over and over. So when your teenagers or grandchildren roll their eyes at you, ignore them. Remind yourself that you’re busy working on their legacy as well as yours.