My 7-year-old daughter, Abby, is in what I hope is merely a stage. She lies…a lot. And the stories she tells aren’t those that you’d expect like she’s trying to get herself out of trouble or she’s not done her homework. No, she tells lies that embellish stories that are plenty interesting on their own. She tells me things that people say to her – but they really didn’t. And I can’t find that out until I hear her tell the same story four or five times, with slight changes, until I finally get the true version. Why is this?
I want to believe it’s merely a stage. And, really, I do. I also believe that I need to talk to her about why it’s important to tell the truth. And I do. But here’s my bind. I don’t want her to be so concerned that she’ll be caught in a lie that she won’t finally confess. Instead, her lies will just become larger. And further, I don’t want to squelch this deep proclivity within her to tell amazing stories.
Why is it that we so want our stories to be different, better, larger, more dramatic? And is that all bad? I know…lying’s not OK – for a 7-year-old or any age. But I also know that I’m not that much different than she is. Maybe I don’t lie in the words that I say. Maybe I lie more in the words I don’t say. Maybe I lie in convincing myself that I don’t want (or can’t have) a different, better, larger, or more dramatic story.
Abby will be fine. So will I. But there’s something in her weaving of tales that tells me something more about her heart – its desire and its pain. The same is true for me…Maybe we can figure out how to weave tales together – on each other’s behalf – in search of a truth that is far more beautiful than any lie.
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