I’ve been thinking a lot about stories lately.
Of fairy tales, and how they are somewhat morphing into “Wait — I will save her!” to “No thanks, I can save myself.”
Of the stories that leave you in thought, and then the ones that you want to throw against a brick wall.
You know which ones I’m talking about …
The ones that you invest hours into, cry your own tears over.
The characters you know have to be real, and you refer to in normal conversations.
Only to have the book end with an ending that’s exactly opposite of what you were expecting.
Nicholas Sparks is really good at those.
Then there are those stories that are filled with events, some good and some terrible; some magical and some bad. Events that you didn’t see coming. Every page is seemingly a surprise, leaving you with your eyes glued to the page at 2 am.
Those are the kind I like. The stories you don’t expect.
Each of us have a story, and the older I get, the more I appreciate mine.
Because it’s not a fairy tale. It’s the kind I described last.
The surprise factor. The anticipation.
Sometimes I actually get angry with fairytales. Weird, I know. But it’s the truth.
I get angry at the expectations that they leave in the mind of the hope-filled.
How on God’s green earth does Ariel’s hair look like that after she swims in the ocean?
Saying “Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo” out loud doesn’t end with anything. Not even a sudden appearance of caffeine.
Snow White literally ends up with 7 instant BFF’s who follow her every move, and the animals communicate with her. Probably even scrub her dishes.
And why do they all sound like perfect little angels when they sing?
Magically Sleeping Beauty finds a gorgeous male, who is not a stalker might I add, in a FORREST?!
Every single piece of that is unrealistic. Yet, I’ve at least genuinely hoped for 3 of those things to happen to me.
Perfect beach hair, communication with animals, and a handsome prince? Hello, do you blame me?
But why? Because it’s a good story.
And it took me a long time to realize that my story wasn’t supposed to resemble anyone else’s.
My story was supposed to be just my own.
Turns out I did need saving.
But who came to my rescue wasn’t Prince Charming’s cousin.
It was a Man who died on a cross.
And rose again.
Not for my good days.
But for my worst ones.
I think most of the time we forget that our stories aren’t supposed to look like one of those cliche novels where you can predict the ending in the first chapter.
Because if we don’t like those kind of books, why would we want ours to resemble it?
Our stories are evidence of our journey, and evidence that we not only made it …
but that we lived.
To look back at the beginning and smile.
To look at where you’re standing and be grateful.
To look at the unknown future and rejoice.
Because no matter what your story holds tomorrow, you can rest in the fact that the page is already written.
And I can promise you one thing, Nicholas Sparks doesn’t hold a candle to the Author.