Your Story. My Story. Our Story!

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Your Story. My Story. Our Story. Passionate concluding words sung by the Gullah storyteller at Boone Hall Plantation near Charleston where my husband and I toured a couple days ago. We stumbled upon her outside one of the tiny slave homes situated under the moss drenched oaks on the magnificent expansive property. She had been enlightening the small crowd on the history and culture of the Gullah people who served as slaves in the very place we stood listening.
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She was captivating in the way she painted the picture of life in a time we would prefer to blot out of our country’s history. But instead of speaking with bitterness and contempt she urged us – all of us white and black folk gathered around –Remember

Your Story. My Story. Our Story.

Just the day before I had read a very similar statement in a different, context. In the book Sarah’s Key, which I had brought along on our trip to the Low Country, I heard for the first time through a fictional character about another point in history that is often overlooked.  It is the plight of the Jewish French citizens during the Vel d’Hiv’ Roundup of July 16, 1942.
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Men, women and children escorted from their Paris homes by the French police, held at the Vel d’Hiv’ cycling arena and ultimately to their deaths at Auschwitz. Very few escaped.  Those who did and also the non-Jewish French, who had turned a blind eye, rarely – if ever – spoke of it in attempt to erase the horror from their minds. Even the memorial plaques simply defer guilt on to Hitler alone. Finally in 1995, over fifty years after the roundup occurred, then French President Jacques Chirac became the first to acknowledge France’s responsibility for the thousands of deaths asking that we Remember. Never forget.
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Your Story. My Story. Our Story.

One more story that these two point me back to is that of a man who lived a life of suffering and pain; rejected by his own people. Even his own father rejecting him at the end.
But the rejection came from a Father who was driven by love. A Father who loved His children so deeply despite our sin against Him, He rejected His own son’s final plea for mercy and instead poured out His wrath and judgement so we could go free. So we could spend eternity with Him. So we could experience, now, His smile and presence.

Your Story. My Story. Our Story.

We must know and remember our stories; who we are… Sinners in need of a Savior. And know and remember daily His story; who He is… Our Rescuer and Redeemer. Despite sin and circumstances the ransom has been paid. We are free. Free to live under His never-ending grace that is always bigger than our never-ending sin.

Your Story, My Story; Wrapped up in Him. His Story is now Our Story!

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One thought on “Your Story. My Story. Our Story!

  1. Pingback: Was Joy Possible for a Slave? | house of hatton

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