Writing with Juliet Iwelunmor

When stories go a distance, they become crooked. So too the story for today. It began as any other, with plans beyond time. Then life intervened and the journey turned into another moment in need for deeper reflection. We are all stories, carrying kernels of truth, mixed with untruth, all shaped as we journey along this life. However the story begins is never how it ends, but we tell our version, they tell theirs, and somewhere in between lies the truth of which only the storyteller conveys. So long as you are a lion, tell your story or be prepared for whatever version hunters tell.

It’s hard to imagine whatever version of the story is told about how this grotto came to be. When I first saw it, I immediately knew the origin. Still I doubted but hoped maybe the story I knew would be true. It was. Sometimes, we know how the story unfolds. We even know the story. My hope is that we stand prepared to tell it, even when storytellers are not around to tell it themselves. So here is this story. This grotto was built by the one whose mother named her Onyelo for whoever knew that one day she would give birth to a child let alone a child fixed on telling the story of Mary. To know them is to know life. I’m only grateful that I get to help shape their stories.