Sharing Sacred Stories: We have practiced Leading with Breathing; Waiting with Water; and Hosting the Heart’s Hospitality. These sacred blessings ignite our Ocular Fire – the inner eye’s fire of the Spirit and the visions we hold about the world – as we see all of this as Sacred Story. Yours, Mine, Ours.

Yours, Mine, Ours. And it is in the telling that a story flowers. Turns sacred in the telling. Becomes part of the Life Story of everyone who listens. Our stories reflect our identity and lies at the Heart of all that we are and can become, and of how we relate to one another and to the Universe. 

Sharing Sacred Stories requires lives that have been lived; a willingness to share no matter the cost or its consideration; ears to hear; and hearts to Host Sacred Stories by holding them in the sacred space of one’s Sacred Bundle. Four Chambers. One Bundle. A thousand stories to be told. And for all of them, room enough for us to hold!

You have to love our Elders. You know you have found one when they say: “Have I told you the story about the…”? It appears to be a formal way of introducing Sacred Stories! 

My father, as an elder, would say: “Have I told you the story of the Toad on a Post?” Out of respect (and if we were alone) I would say: “No dad, not more than one hundred times, but please refresh my memory!”

And he would say: “The toad did not get there by themselves.” In those two sentences were his encyclopedia of the world. We get where we get by helping one another (or should). He lived that to his dying day. In fact, upon his death, he had given most everything away that he had. The remaining things? His old car and a few pieces of furniture. These things were donated to Habitat for Humanity because Habitat for Humanity knows we get to better places in our lives by helping one another. The Toad on the Post. We cannot get to where we are going by going it alone.

OK, but get this: as with most stories there is another version. In other circumstances he would say: “Did I tell you the story about…. An old man was walking along a dusty country road, and he heard a voice say “Help me sir! If you come and kiss me, I’ll turn into a beautiful princess and stay with you forever!” Sounded like a good deal!

The story continues: The old man goes to where he heard the voice and there is a toad (not yet on a post!) speaking to him! Yep. Speaking to him. “Help me sir! If you pick me up and kiss me, I will turn into a beautiful princess and stay with you forever!” So, he picked up the toad, and promptly put it in his pocket!

A muffled voice was heard saying: “Wait! This isn’t the way this story is supposed to turn out!” “I know, I know” the old man said. But to tell you the truth, I would rather have a talking toad!” There was a story about this in the local newspaper, The Morning Post, the very next day.

And off they went down the road. The old man, and the toad.

Now this version of the story of the toad and the old man is quite a load to carry. But my suspicion is this. That dad was the toad, and the librarian he fell in love with is the one who did the kissing. And as they walked down the road of life, that woman (my mother) had my dad in her back pocket! At least that’s the way I would say it. A big shout out and thank you to my mother for kissing that toad on that road and not leaving him on a post all alone. He would have been toast, there alone on that post.

But alone he would die (or so the story goes). Mom had passed on from Alzheimer’s, and dad cared for her through those years as well. Shortly before he died, they held a roast for that Toad on a Post. They called him a National Treasure. Collaborating with him on behalf of Habitat for Humanity had been such a pleasure. 

Did he boast of his post during that roast? Speak of President Mobutu allowing us to visit Zaire (DRC) Africa? Speak of inviting President Jimmy Carter to join Habitat and its mission? Brag about attending colleges including those in different countries? No, not once. 

But during the Roast he thanked his Host: The God of his understanding whom he served. And thanked that Host for the privilege to love and serve humanity. Then he turned with his cane and walked off the podium aided by the local Habitat President. His last public appearance.

Then one night the ambulance came because something was wrong within my dad’s frame (an aneurysm). And in the ambulance (according to one of the medics) my father was heard saying “I can’t wait to see my wife Patsy again and even if I can only be in the back of the crowd there before God, I shall love her still.” 

Well, from what I have heard through what we call dreams, he is standing next to her, his heart bursting at the seams (he is Untying the Shaman’s Bundle! Go Dad!). And that is the way the story in fact does unfold. And it’s my story and I am sticking to it!

Permit me to share a closing story of storytelling. It’s about the sacredness at the time of one’s dying.

My mother had always made her three sons (Craig, John, and Stephen) promise not to visit her anymore should she become unable to care for herself. We honored her wishes. That last February birthday we three boys went to see her in Florida to say goodbye. During our stay, we had the aides safely put mother in her wheelchair, and off we went to one of the guest apartments in the center where she was being cared for. Dad would wait for us back in his room.

Once in the apartment, Sacred Stories filled the air, the water from our tears openly shared. Our hearts and souls bared. We each would take a turn and share Sacred Stories remembered. When one son was done telling his stories, the next would take his place. We did this for at least two hours. Honoring this amazing woman, our matriarch. At the end of our time, this woman who appeared to be sleeping all this time, raised her head and for the first time opened her eyes and seemed to smile. Then bowed her head again and closed her eyes for the last time.

The next day we prepared to leave. We went to her nursing unit and kissed her goodbye, reminding her of our love and that we were honoring her request to not return again. That was a terribly awkward thing to say and mean; it was cushioned only by the knowledge we were honoring this incredible mother and Matriarch. I played my Native American style flute for her. Prayers were said and our last kisses were placed upon her cheek.

I was on the plane returning home when she crossed over that same day. We both had taken flight. She was classy. Impeccable timing, as she desired.

She had a say in how her story unfolded with her three sons. And how and when she died. How and when she took flight. And where her flight would take her.

Every now and then, as Shaman’s are wont to do, I take flight. There are places one may visit, but I go to the Outer Hebrides Islands, off the coast of Scotland (my mother was of the Craig clan) and I go to Barra Island in particular. And there on the shore I meet my mother and father; John, one of my two brothers; and my cousin Jean. We stand there watching the air and water of the sea, honoring the sacredness of all species. Others join us on the shore as we sit around a fire and honor Sacred Stories.

But this time it is different. There are stories, but the Bundle itself is the story. We are untying the Bundle. We don’t have to speak. Everything is understood in silence. The sea thunders gently. Mist fills our breathing and as we share the moist sea air, Sacred Story unfolds not in words, but in golden light from the Sacred Bundle, surrounding and filling each and every one of us.

All along the beach are fires with people and animals gathered around. Many fires, One Flame. And here we are, the standing story. We are standing in the story. Standing in the sand, in the Sacred Story. Not telling one. But living a Sacred Story. 

Theologian Albert Outler once said: “We were designed to ‘belong’ and to be ‘at home’ in God’s Creation in an incredibly unique way – finite creatures with capacities for participation in the divine love and goodness and joy.”

So let us remember that all that we feel, all that we know and believe, and all that we do in our actions, become the Sacred Stories of our lives. Creation requires and gives reciprocity. In the giving of our Sacred Stories, we fulfill that sacred covenant with Creation. And we can participate in divine love and goodness and joy. And we can do so, even in the face of suffering.

Tell your sacred story!