My sister Shawna has always been a masterful storyteller. When her kids were little, she’d gather them close and announce, “I’m going to tell you a story!” Instantly, a new world would open—one filled with fairies, dragons, and all sorts of enchanting characters. The best part? Everyone got to join in. The kids—and any lucky cousin nearby—would toss in names, plot twists, and imaginary lands, shaping the tale as it unfolded. Shawna didn’t just tell stories; she created space for others to step inside them.
That image has stayed with me, because I believe it reflects something deeper—something sacred. Storytelling isn’t just a human pastime; it’s a divine pattern. God has woven the language of story into the very fabric of Scripture. From Genesis to Revelation, he invites us into his grand narrative of redemption. And here we are, in the middle of our own stories, in the middle of God’s story—with all its twists and turns, sacrifice and sorrow.
My own story? It’s anything but simple. It often feels like one of Shawna’s “choose your own adventure” tales—full of unexpected paths, false starts, and surprising turns. What brought me from there to here is a patchwork of chapters involving distant lands, corrupt systems, kind villagers, brave friends, foreign languages, and dragons (well, snakes, but you get the idea).
Not every part of my story is wrapped up in a neat bow. Not every chapter overflows with triumphant “cross-cultural moments” or peaceful pastures. Some pages are marked by loss: seasons of depression, injustice, difficult goodbyes, and medical crises that cracked me open in ways I never expected. And yet, even in the mess and the mystery, God has never stopped writing. His hand has been steady, even when mine has trembled.
For women serving cross-culturally, our stories can feel especially complex. Our stories are layered, weaving together parts of us that only seem to fit in certain spaces and places. We cross boundaries, traverse languages and cultures, and navigate new and unfamiliar surroundings until suddenly, it becomes part of our daily life. The content of our stories swing from the mundane to the miraculous—one day we’re hanging laundry with neighbors; the next, we’re slipping into a secret baptism. We journey through life with teammates, spouses, and children, engaging in dialogue marked by prayer, opinions, frustration, and laughter.
When we returned from East Asia for a sabbatical ten years ago, I never imagined it would mark the end of our overseas chapter. We fully expected to go back to our home, our work, and the life we had built. But as we took time to recover from years of “fieldwork,” things on the ground began to unravel. Teammates were leaving, projects were shutting down, and security concerns were at an all-time high. Our overseas story was ending, and the Lord was writing a new chapter in our lives.
It was a chapter I didn’t want to begin. I had spiritual writer’s block. I couldn’t get my heart or mind around this unexpected shift. I couldn’t find the words, the through line, or even imagine what life could look like back “home.” And yet . . . God met me there. He wasn’t just crafting a good story—he was drawing me into his heart with every line.
Now, flipping back through the pages of the last decade, the picture is clearer. What once felt disorienting gave way to new growth and deeper purpose. Within two years of that decision, our home became a soft landing place for colleagues forced to return to their passport countries. We found ourselves walking with friends—including my sister Shawna’s family—through grief, transition, and unknowns, offering space to lament and process their own abrupt ending. It was an unexpected honor to be part of their unfolding stories, even as God continued to write ours.
Only God could script something so unexpected, so full of both struggle and grace. And isn’t that the wonder of it all? That the Author of the universe—the One who spoke galaxies into being—chooses to invite us into his grand narrative. What an honor it is to participate in a story so much bigger than ourselves. Even more incredible is the truth that God isn’t just overseeing the plot from afar—he’s in it with us. He’s intimately involved in every subplot, every turning point, every quiet detail we think no one sees.
God is not just aware of our stories—he’s fulfilling his purpose through them. And not a single chapter is wasted. Psalm 56:8 says, “You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book” (NLT). Our pain, our praise, our confusion, our courage—he’s keeping track of it all. He’s writing with compassion, intention, and a heart that longs to draw us deeper into his presence.
Maybe that’s why the image of my sister, surrounded by wide-eyed children as she spun stories in real time, has stayed with me so vividly. Like her, God invites us to come close—to listen, to imagine, and participate. But he does more than tell us a story; he writes us into it. Just as my sister wove each child’s ideas into the narrative, God takes our lives—our brokenness and beauty, our questions and quiet faith—and weaves them into his redemptive masterpiece. We may not know how the next chapter will unfold, but we can trust the Author—he knows exactly where the story is going, even when we don’t.
In honor of my sister Shawna—whose August birthday marks a life of courageous faith—I celebrate her strength, grace, and unwavering spirit that inspires everyone who knows her.
Are there pieces of your story that you wish were different? How might God be gently working even there? What signs of grace might be hiding in the margins?
One Response
So beautifully written, Monica. You share your sister’s gift for storytelling.