I remember the summer in 1986 when my identity as a storyteller began. After filling my 1968 Buick Wildcat, a classmate that I’d not seen in five years came running up to me and jumped into my arms!
Over cherry slushies, we caught up. Eerily – or at least so I thought at the time – she said, “If anything ever happens to me, I need you to speak at my funeral.” I was charmed, but laughed it off. We were 23.
Two weeks later I was informed that she had died in a car accident. She had two children; the oldest was 3. The night after I saw her at the convenience store, she told her parents she wanted me to speak at her funeral should anything ever happen. Their pastor would do the eulogy, but I would tell her story.
I would explain her nickname: “Quick.” (Her mother once scolded her to stop being so “fast.” Not knowing what that meant, I affirmed that she was, in fact, very quick.) I would tell about the time she pushed me from atop the tall metal playground slide in kindergarten. I would tell about the times we made honor roll. I would tell about the time she got caught coming out of a smoke-filled bathroom and how I convinced the principal that her hair was on fire.
I would tell about Herbert, the hamster she convinced the teacher that I should keep for the summer. I would tell about how she beat me up for beating up two of her boyfriends, neither of whom I thought was good enough. I would tell how she loved her first-born daughter, and how she was sad I missed the birth of the second. I would tell about time we saw each other last and drank cherry slushies.
Before a tear-filled congregation, the pastor stood beside me and said that his eulogy wasn’t necessary; enough had been said. Over 20 of our friends and former classmates joined the church that day.
A couple of years passed, and I received a call from the father of Quick’s children. The oldest, now a kindergartner, wanted to hear me tell her mother’s stories again. It would not be the last time she would reach out to me. Recently, we became friends on Facebook. A year or so ago, she sent me a message to let me know that she had become a mother. On Quick’s birthday, she posted my synopsis of her mother’s life. Through social media, Quick’s story had been secured for her grandchildren and for eternity.
My aunt confirmed that, though preachers abound in our family, I am the one who best keeps and tells the family’s stories, especially at times of mourning and remembrance. My social media accounts hold those events through my own lens.
Deuteronomy 26 opens with a reminder of the importance of continuously sharing the presence of God in our history. Storytelling is a sacred art. Perhaps the most coveted gift of the African griot (a historian or storyteller, also called a jeli) is his or her ability to weave history, current events, music, songs of praise and poetry into the storytelling moment.
Prayer, hospitality, service, retreat and storytelling have been identified as five key forms of Christian formation. Stories remind us of where God has brought us from and encourage us in knowing that wherever we go, God is there. At Quick’s funeral, her story not only drew us close around our shared pasts, but also closer to the God that sets and controls the stage of human history.
One preaching professor instructed: “Don’t draw out a boring story, especially if you see it crashing. If you can’t be good, be quick.”
My buddy was not always perfect, but one thing is certain, she was Quick.
Carlton David Johnson is associate for Vital Congregations for the PC(USA). He and his wife Cara split their time between Atlanta and Louisville.
