Frog Hunting: Let Me Be Entertained

Just joining in? Start the Frog Hunting series at day one.

Regale me. Entertain me. Impress me. Don’t be dull, irritating, or silent. Tell me fascinating stories, like the time you sailed down the Amazon River or the time you had an awkward interaction with Sean Connery at the Oscars. That was funny. That kept me from yawning. That kept me from reaching for my phone to see how soon I could leave without being rude.  If you’re not attractive (and, let’s face it, most of you aren’t) at least be interesting. 

I’m glad we’re at a bar. At least the cocktails are nice. At least the cocktail takes the edge off. I want to be here because I’ve concluded it’s better than not dating at all. But I don’t really want to be with you. I feel like I’m wasting my time. I’m trying not to be bored. 

I take another sip of my drink. I’m grateful you at least paid for the first round, but I would rather be at the gym, not ingesting calories with you. 

You run your hand down the side of your glass, wiping the condensation away. You look away for a moment. Thank God. 

I breathe. 

And then a thought occurs, as you’re saying something about your career choice not turning into what you dreamed. The thought starts small, then grows. My brow furrows. You were staring at me a moment ago. Now, I’m staring at you.

The thought occurs to me that you’re a person. A human being. You have dignity and worth. You’re an eternal being. You bear the image of God, whether you love God or not. 

You have a story. You are a story. You’re a walking, breathing, story teller. Your story is interesting because it’s your story. It’s real. You’re real. 

I was sitting with my back against the chair, shoulders slumped, arms crossed. Then, as this thought takes hold and I come to understand it more, I’m leaning forward, chin on fist. I’m taking you in, in all your humanity and value. I’m hearing your story. What were you saying again?

I’m no longer comparing how many questions I’ve asked to the questions you’ve asked, making sure we’re equal. My questions are coming quickly, so quickly, because our stories are passing by. It’ll be time to go home soon. I won’t see you again. I have a few more minutes to hear your story—to hear which portion you choose to share. 

Our stories cross paths just for a moment. After tonight, our stories will take different paths, writing new chapters. But for a moment, I’m a part of your story, and you’re a part of mine. 

I want to know your story. Because it‘s your story. 

You are a really, really good story. 

 Photo by Håkon von Hirsch on Unsplash