One of my biggest fears as a creative storyteller is that I’ll run out of ideas. If I'm really honest, I grapple with this fear on a daily basis. One day, according to this fear, I’ll reach the awkward moment where the well runs dry and I have nothing left to offer. All the ideas will have expired. There will be no more.

No amount of evidence to the contrary seems to convince this fear to go away. Rationality doesn’t stack up to fear very well anyway. And I’ve found this to be something most of us struggle with in the area of creative ministry and storytelling. It’s an internal battle, and it mostly has to do with scarcity, the idea that things will inevitably run out at some point.

For all the interest and enthusiasm about storytelling in the church lately, there’s still a lot of fear involved in sharing our stories in front of God and everybody. And it's understandable. Think about it. We're all social creatures. From an early age, we have a tendency to scan our environments to observe what people are wearing, how they’re talking and what they’re saying. This is one of many survival techniques we perfect as we get older. We need to belong, and we want to make sure our words and actions don’t put that in jeopardy.

I love to film people’s stories. But whenever we wrap up filming, the first question people usually ask me is, “Was that ok?” What they’re usually asking us is, “Can you use that? Did I say what you wanted?” And they’re probably feeling something closer to “Crap, why did I just say all that on camera?” All of a sudden, it’s out there now for the world to see, outside their control.

I am married to one of the world’s most compassionate people.  This may sound like a grandiose overstatement unless know my wife, in which case you know I’m not exaggerating.

My wife makes people feel cared for, understood and loved deeply.  If you’re familiar with the Enneagram, she’s an off-the-charts Type 2 - tuned into people’s needs and always ready to help, especially if you’re alone and need a friend.  She checks in on people, cheers them on, and cries with them when they’re hurting.  She can barely watch the news and has never seen a horror movie.  It's just too painful to watch other people in pain.  She’s easily the kindest, most merciful person most people have ever met.  

And I never hear the end of it from everyone we know, how much I LUVVV your wife.  It’s kind of annoying.

“I have an idea for a book I want to write.”

It was Thanksgiving, and the family was all together. My dad and brother were in the room – both writers like me – and I wanted to share my great story idea.

“A boy grows up with an inventive father. The dad’s always creating new contraptions – kind of like a wacky Willy Wonka character. But one day, the dad finds out his father died. He’s thrust into a depression, and the boy has to figure out how to relate to his dad. All seems lost until one day the dad discovers a treasure map…”

“Hold on,” my brother interrupted. “What’s the inciting incident in this story?”

My frustration manifested tight lips and a red face. “Just. Uh. Just listen to the story.

Let’s talk for a second about stories, shall we? More specifically, let’s talk about YOUR story. Although I don’t know what it is, I know it’s incredibly personal. Depending on your age, it may be a long story ... Or maybe it’s been pretty short. Many might know your story. Or you may have kept it hidden and only shared it with a few. I also know that your story has involved strength. That’s right. I guarantee it’s taken some amount of strength to get to where you’re at. (And you’re here, so it’s not over yet!) But have you identified that strength and used it to share your story with others? If not… Where do we start?

The most terrifying people in the world are 7th & 8th graders. I know this from first-hand experience because I used to teach 7th & 8th grade band. Teaching 60+ kids in your classroom at once after handing them noisemakers is like a scene out of Hurt Locker. One stray fart noise and it’s all over.

As a band director, one of my jobs (other than counselor, disciplinarian, parent, teacher, psychologist, custodian, psychic, doctor) was to listen and respond to what I heard the band play. In order to respond with constructive feedback I had to listen obsessively.  My ear would be tuned in to every note, rhythm, instrument group & specific student.

On June 24th, millions of British citizens woke up to the unexpected news that their country had voted to leave the European Union. Google reported that searches for "what happens if we leave the EU?" flooded in that morning. The country was shocked.

On November 8th, millions of Americans stayed up to watch Donald Trump take the stage and thank his supporters for a campaign victory. Nobody saw it coming. The Donald looked as surprised as anyone.

In storytelling, I’ve found that there’s often a moment of truth at the end of an interview. For me, it used to be a moment of panic.

I'd go out to film someone’s story without much interview prep beforehand. I'd show up with a few questions handy just in case, but most of my attention went to figuring out gear and filming locations. 

We’d arrive, set up, fine-tune our shots, and start rolling. I’d ask the person to share their story. I’d keep the conversation moving forward, making sure everyone was engaged. But my head was somewhere else. "How’s the light? Is that a plane flying overhead? This guy’s a talker. Oh they’ve got dogs, fantastic."

Most of the time, I was half-following a story I was half-familiar with, assuming we'd figure it out in post. Then suddenly, we'd arrive at the end of their story. And I had to make the call. Are we good? Should we go back and cover something again, or can we wrap up and pack down?

I've told all kinds of stories under all kinds of deadlines. That's often how things roll in the church. Our leaders' best ideas seem to pop up a day late and a dollar short, without the resources or the time to execute them properly. But somehow, we just go ahead and do it anyway.

We live in a culture where we pride ourselves on getting stuff done. Busyness is a given. Exhaustion is a badge of honor. Particularly in the world of production, a lot of us are adrenaline junkies. We almost-don't-make-it across the finish line a lot more often than we probably should. Don't believe me? Look at what you spent on coffee this past year.

Last year, I was down in Ecuador filming some stories from our church’s ministry there. We met up with two of our missionaries who I’ve known for several years. While we were catching up over lunch, discussing our plans to film, one of missionaries leaned over and asked me, “so Brian, what’s your job title again?” I told her, “I’m the Pastor of Storytelling.”

She busted out laughing so hard, she nearly fell out of her chair. “Storytelling? Is that a job?” I might as well told her I was the Curator of Rainbows and Feelings.

The thing is though, I get it.

We spend a lot of time talking about why stories matter. We’re told that storytelling is one of—if not the most effective means of communication. There’s something special about connecting with a story that causes us to see things differently, or to feel less alone in our own story. But in order for us to get to this place of connection, a story has to be heard. Someone has to start. Someone has to go first.

What if that person was you?

*“Once upon a time,”* I always began, *“there was a little girl named Pesty…”*

The bright blue eyes of my sister and brother would grow wide with anticipation as I wove yet another bedtime tale about a reckless heroine who got into all kinds of trouble but always bounced back to save the day. I was about 10 years old, and shared a bedroom in our small suburban house with a sister, just a year younger than me, and my brother, three years younger.  

Most nights when my parents turned out the lights, my siblings would look at me and beg, “Tell us another Pesty story.”  I made these stories up, and I suspect that the character was wacky and wild to compensate for how safely I lived my own life – never coloring much outside the lines. Pesty was the brave and crazy girl I wish I could be.  I made up the stories on the spot, and none of them were not very good – yet my brother and sister were captivated and I learned the wonder of those four magical words … *once upon a time.*

In the last 15 years, I’ve had the chance to work with a lot of communicators. I’ve made films for churches, shared stories for sermon series, produced events and conferences, and created promos for organizations. And in all that time, I’ve never met anyone – a leader or pastor, a teacher or preacher, a creative or communicator – who didn’t care about impacting their audience.

Every communicator I’ve ever met wants to create impact, to get something across in a powerful way that resonates. That desire is pretty universal. Whether we’re telling a joke, teaching a class, or trying to make a point to our spouse, we are hardwired to convey our message to other people. This instinct lives deep within us, the desire to communicate an idea in order to enact some sort of response.

Sunday’s coming. 

It started with an email. Then there was a meeting. Interviews were filmed. B-roll was shot. Now everything you’ve worked on is sitting on a hard drive. And it's waiting, waiting for you to edit it into a work of art, transforming it into a masterpiece. 

The people around you have high hopes. It’ll be so awesome, maybe the best thing they’ve ever seen. People will clap. Maybe it’ll go viral and you’ll be a huge deal. They can’t wait to see what you come up with.

Remember Show and Tell? 

Back in a simpler America, elementary school teachers would give the class an assignment once or twice a year – bring something from home and tell us about it and what it means to you. Apparently, this idea was originally created by educators in an effort to develop our public speaking skills and build our self-esteem. 

Of course, that only worked if you were popular, had spectacular confidence or brought something you knew would impress everybody. Otherwise you felt panic. You felt dread. When your name was called, your face flushed and your ears started ringing. You stood up and ‘dead-man-walking’d’ your way up to the front of the class to face the charges against you … boring, lame, unacceptable.

We live in an age when everything is accessible, automated and easier than it used to be. 

Not that long ago, booking a flight across the country used to mean calling a travel agent. Finding a good book meant a trip to the library or Barnes & Noble. Watching a movie meant going to the theater or maybe Blockbuster. Doing stuff meant actually leaving your house. Now technology brings everything straight to us.

I think it's fair to say that, until the last 10 or 15 years, it’s not likely that many of us would be making films, editing photos and producing content the way we are today. I’m a product of this age. Many of us are.