The other week, a friend sent me an email, inviting me to a storytelling event at a nearby church later that night.

I have been a fan of storytelling for some time. I love storytelling as an art form (I’ve been to the national storytelling festival in Jonesboro, Tennessee several times). I have enjoyed slams at local bars and have listened to many airings of The Moth on NPR on Saturday mornings.

I even told a personal experience story myself at Fitzgerald’s years ago. I made my plight, buying a swimsuit as a very well-endowed nineteen year-old, relatable and entertaining.

Chicago has a pretty happening storytelling scene. Do Not Submit features open mics at various locations almost every week.  Story Lab and This Much is True has been holding monthly programs for years, mostly at a bar on the northwest side of the city.

Like so many in-person gatherings, COVID changed things. Soul Stories Live has recently started to bring back occasional live shows to go with virtual performances, which have been operating for months.

Followers of different groups have been checking Facebook pages and other social media platforms for updates on in-person gatherings and use of temporary space.

Such was the case relative to my friend’s invitation to join her for a This Much is True program at a church. Attached to her email was a weblink noting that they were planning to hold sets at a nearby church until they found a new permanent space.

It feels so good to have storytelling as an entertainment option again. An evening at a storytelling venue usually involves five or six personal narratives of incredible humanity.  Coming of age or coming to terms stories often anchor the bill. Tales of wishful thinking or regret also tend to be well-represented within themes that are given to the tellers in advance.

Whether funny or sad or insightful or all of these, the stories shared tend to make a big impression because they come out of the actual experience of the teller. Knowing that they are true adds weight to the idea of witnessing them.

Listening to these stories are also poignant because usually the tellers are not experienced performers. Yes, sometimes, there are seasoned tellers in a set, but often people come forward to share experiences that they just wanted someone else to know about.

For these tellers, presenting their experience is as much about wanting to be heard as it is about how they lost their virginity, or got hopelessly drunk on a Greek Island, or how they found out, after twenty-five years of marriage, that their spouse was gay.

I love storytelling, but I was not sure how I felt about this invitation. I recognized having had a similar reaction, almost irritation, when receiving other invitations in the past. I found justifications for bristling at the outreach for many reasons.

• I found myself irked at being contacted last minute. I had no other plans, or I didn’t want the person inviting me to know I had no other plans.
• I was perturbed that the invitation didn’t come with a “plus-one” option, that I was left to question whether I’d be welcome to bring a guest or ask another friend.
• I didn’t want to deal with parking.
• I wasn’t asked in a very personal way. Maybe the emailed invitation with link and map to the venue was sent to 10 people in the hopes that one or two would show up.

I shook my head at myself. The definition of “invitation” focuses on a “request to be present or participate.” I kept finding reasons why the invitation was lacking.

That someone would think of me to be present or participate in something is a wonderful thing regardless of whether I decide to show up for the event or not. The choice of participating is up to me.

Getting an invitation is not meant as an excuse to judge how the offer was made. It’s a chance to be included.

Being thought of is no small thing.