Someone was asking me yesterday about my training and background in psychology. I was recounting how most of my graduate school preparation was in neuropsychology. That is the direction I was headed, and while that is an interesting career, it held a drawback for me. When doing a neuropsychology evaluation, you take a history of the patient, and during this time they will tell you about their lives. For example, one of my assignments was at the Parent Child Center, where I would do evaluations on parents who had lost custody of their children, but were hoping for re-unification. I remember wanting to know how things went. Did they make changes in their lives? Were they able to have their children back? But I only had one day with them. If I were going to have a career in neuropsychology I would never know the rest of the story.
The not knowing was a frustration I thought I could live with until the day my dissertation chair told me I needed to do a therapy rotation. “You will not be able to get an internship if you don’t have some therapy experiences,” he said. So I reluctantly took his advice and never looked back! Psychotherapy came so naturally to me, but grinding out neuropsych evals was laborious. I quickly realized the therapy room is a sacred place. It is a privilege when people share their stories. Together we walk through the hard and look for solutions. Occasionally, the most I can do is weep with them. I remember one of my professors telling me that I would need to be able to sit with pain. Oh the pain some people experience! People ask me how I am able to do it. I don’t do it alone. I invite the Holy Spirit to come along side me.
Even in my private life I want to hear the story. Before I ever even dreamed of going to school in my forties, strangers would approach me at the grocery store and begin telling me their life stories. I can remember a woman crying over the frozen food aisle. “How does that happen to you,” my husband would ask. I try to make a point to chat with the “invisible” people in my life: checkers, waitresses, etc. Even if we only have a few seconds, there is something powerful about being seen and heard.
We all have a story. I used to think of my story as my story, but in later years I recognized that Jesus invited me into His story. It’s all about Him. Even though my story is not important, it is an honor to even be a line or a footnote in His great story of redemption. I was talking with my former pastor a few days ago. He is recently retired and we were discussing the fear many retirees have of becoming irrelevant, and then having that aha moment. We are irrelevant! And being at peace with that! My story is not even a blip on the world’s radar, but what an honor to have a tiny part of God’s story. I believe that God is still writing my story. What’s your story?
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