When my sister and I were young, The Wizard of Oz was televised once a year and always on Sunday night. It was a major event; the quintessential children’s classic. It began in black and white and
changed to technicolor, and the host cautioned the audience lest they think their set defective. (Our set did not change so we were spared that adjustment.) Weeks in advance, we would begin pleading our case to skip church so that we could watch it. Our batting average was about .500.
Under a homemade “tent” (a quilt positioned over chair backs and held by heavy books) we watched Lucy Ricardo’s antics and laughed until we cried. I think we both hoped her schemes would work
for her now and then. Most of the time they did not.
We were glued to the set for any appearance featuring the magical Shirley Temple. We thought her the fairest of them all. Her movies always made us laugh and they always made us cry. When my sister was a teenager she loved Marlo Thomas in That Girl. We both marveled at Ann Marie’s massive eyelashes and perfect hair. Her clothes were provided by Ohrbach’s (not sure why I remember that) and it was worth watching the show just to see her fancy, beautiful outfits, and her perfectly coordinated purses and shoes.
We watched beach movies featuring Gidget and her various leading men who could, somehow, surf the waves of the Atlantic while carrying on a conversation with fellow surfers lined up alongside them. We rooted for backwoods Tammy and her doctor, Cinderella and her Prince, and Peter Pan and his Tinkerbell.
To say things have changed since then is like saying that a supersonic jet is faster than a stagecoach. We’ve thrown satellites into space and fine-tuned our senses until we can hardly bear to be entertained without high definition and plasma panels. I recall adjusting the aluminum foil attached to my parent’s antenna so as to enhance the reception of our three stations, all of which signed off at midnight. Now our multi-faceted signal is piped directly into our homes or handhelds and we never have to miss a beat.
About the only thing that has not changed is the fact that entertainment, old and new, still hinges on a good story. The writers
made us care about Shirley’s dad who was fighting in the war; about Cinderella’s cruel treatment, and Dorothy’s quest for home. The dancing and singing, the glass slipper, and the yellow brick road were icing on the cake. The crux of each experience, the bottom line, was the story.
Even Jesus taught the crowds in stories. Maybe He knew that we would more quickly grasp the significance of what He was saying if He shared in parables. Who has not rejoiced for the Samaritan who administered oil and wine to that halting, suffering robbery victim? (Luke 10:25-37) Who has not re-evaluated their own choices when they read of the rich man who worked for material gain, only to die before he enjoyed any of it? (Luke 12:16-21) And who can forget the mental picture of the wayward prodigal who returned home to a feast instead of a rebuke? (Luke 15)
Maybe He feared that we would not fully grasp the urgency of His messages if He didn’t spell them out for us. Maybe He wanted to offer it so simply that a child could understand and believe. Maybe Jesus talked in stories because He knew we would, ourselves, each have a story.
Your story may not be rags to riches. You may not dance in the spotlight. You may not have tailored clothes with massive eyelashes and perfect hair. But your story is one of a kind; unique to you. Your DNA is not duplicated by another person on the planet. The qualities that make you who you are are yours alone, and He has been aware of you since you were made in secret; since you were in your mother’s womb. All of the days of your life were written in His book before you ever drew a breath. He knows when you sit and stand. He knows what you are going to say before you say it. He thinks of you more often than
there are grains of sand on all of the beaches of the world.
Now, that is a story.
Blessings,
Janet
Janet Paschal 