It’s been stormy here on Kodiak Island. Yesterday when my family and crew were out on high seas picking salmon from the nets, a fishing boat sank just a few miles away, working in the same stormy seas. The boat, heavy in the water with a hold full of salmon, was hauling in another net load when a wave caught them, rolling the boat in an instant. We watched the Coast Guard helicopter fly overhead with the rescued fishermen. Everyone was safe, thank God.

Commercial fishing is not for the faint of heart.

Last week in Kodiak, a runner on a mountain trail near town was mauled by a bear. The bear attacked from behind. As Don Z. lay bleeding on the ground with forearms, leg and hip wounds, the bear left momentarily, but long enough for Don to unstrap his bear spray and to call 911 on his cell. When the bear returned and found him still alive, the bear charged. Don was ready. He sprayed, and the bear ran off. He has another surgery ahead, but he will recover. Thank God.

These are two of many stories happening around me this week, on this island in the North Pacific. During these last few weeks, though, there’s a deeper Inner story going on with a drama all its own.

I sit in my studio over the ocean with my computer, while fishing boats motor past. While bears occasionally swim over to walk our beach. There, in my wilderness studio I’ve been been leading a “Your Story Matters” Writing group on FB. There are 122 in this class. In the midst of all this outer Alaskan drama, I am equally enthralled with these pages and stories. Do you know what’s happening?

Many people carry heavy loads—-they’ve witnessed beautiful and terrible things. Then a storm comes—-and their boat rolls over in the crashing sea. People are running about their lives and suddenly the past attacks, with claws and teeth.

But we fight back. With words. With truth.

People are beginning to believe they have a story.

People who thought themselves unworthy of being heard, are speaking.

People who didn’t know they had a voice, are talking.

People living in fear of offending the “keepers of the family secrets” are writing.

People weighed down with the past are finding words to share the weight of their witness.

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you,” said Maya Angelou.

Do you know what that looks like, when these women and men start finding writing and telling their every-day extraordinary stories?

Last night I saw it, in the language and drama of my own world, here, while out in the fishing boat:

This is us, spreading our wings, finding new courage, grace and agility.

This is us, finding new sustenance as we speak truth, soaring home to feast and to feed the hungry.

”those who wait upon God get fresh strength.
    They spread their wings and soar like eagles . . .”

This is us.

Thank you for being here! and for hearing these stories from my world. Tell me a story from yours this week?