The Red Tent

The door opens.

A home screen. A blank document. A blinking cursor. 

A vast red tent. An expansive table. A seat for me.

“Friendship” reads the place card.

The host invites me, “Tell us a story.”

And so I do.

Nearly nine years ago, after a lengthy season of writer’s block, I felt the surprising stirrings to write again after reading Red Tent Living’s upcoming theme. It wasn’t uncommon for me to visit the “themes” page on the website after reading the day’s post. I held hope that one day I would have the ability to write something and the courage to submit. On this day my eyes lingered on the theme—one word: “friendship.”

I didn’t hesitate. I opened a new document on my laptop and began to tell the story of my older son Seth and his best friend Carter. Before I knew it, I had written 1,000 words. I gave the essay a title, saved it, and sat pondering, “Dare I submit?” My next step quickly became clear. First, I would send it to Carter’s mom and ask for her permission to share their story. I soon received a reply from her saying, “Yes, please send it.” So, I took a deep breath and composed another email.

To: submissions@redtentliving.com

I got in my car, drove to the middle school where I taught, and prepared for the day’s classes, trying to think about anything other than my story. I was still buzzing from the experience of writing the essay; tender from the time spent remembering the boys; moved by Carter’s mother’s blessing; and shocked by my gutsy decision to submit. ”Would they accept it?” I wondered. I didn’t have to wonder for long. 

“Thank you for the beauty of your story,” the host replies. 

The others gathered around the table offer me kind smiles, and I notice that a few of them have tears in their eyes. Usually I would feel exposed in such a moment, but here, in this company, I feel safe, seen, heard, and held.   

And so, the next month, I return to the red tent, and I share another story. Once again, I am warmly received. I quickly discover that this is a community that practices radical hospitality, embracing inclusivity, and earnest engagement. I have found a place of belonging, and month after month, I return.

Since that first essay in September 2015, I have had the honor of sharing nearly 80 stories with Red Tent Living. In them, I have marked milestones with my two sons; explored changing family dynamics; honored the death of my father; and confessed the challenges of caregiving. I have explored my interior world, addressing fear, grief, shame, loneliness, and loss; and I have grappled with tender and touchy subjects like aging, miscarriage, church hurt, political angst, and the COVID-19 pandemic.

The act of writing has been transformational. The experience of being read has been transformational too.

Writing is a risk—“What if I say too much? Sound foolish? Step on toes?” On and on drones the voice of fear—so to be not only read, but received, by women (and men) in the Red Tent community has been a profound gift that feels like a warm and welcoming embrace. You, dear readers, have affirmed time and time again that my words have worth, my thoughts have substance, and my voice has impact—things I had heretofore doubted. Thank you.

“Thank you,” I say, as I finish sharing a story with those gathered around the table. “Thank you for listening.”

Then it is my turn to listen, as someone else begins to share her story. I hold her words with reverence, aware of the sacred offering she is sharing. Although I do not know this woman, I am drawn to her, spellbound by her tale. We are united—all of us gathered in the red tent—in this moment of listening, holding, and honoring.

When the storyteller finishes speaking, we pause and take a collective breath. We turn our faces toward her so that she can see our tenderness, our understanding, and our awe. A few gathered around the table nod their heads in respectful acknowledgement; others hold her gaze so that she can see their tears; while others utter a soft yet sincere “me too.” We are transfixed, and we are transformed.

The stories of Red Tent Living contributors have been transformational to me too. In your writing, I have witnessed your remarkable courage, your courageous vulnerability, and your vulnerable choices. I have been moved by your lovingkindness, your compassion, and your goodness. I have been challenged by your willingness to ask hard questions, to wrestle with your faith, and to faithfully show up, speak up, and stand up. 

In your stories, I have encountered wise sages and dear sisters, daring rebels and inspirational role models, kindred spirits and kind souls, good mothers and noble queens. To be in the company of such writers—such women—has truly been an honor. I will remember your stories, and I will remember you. For you, dear writers, have indelibly moved me, ministered to me, and marked me. Thank you.

And now, the final story is told.

Those gathered around the table exchange knowing glances, and we linger for a meaningful moment in the descending silence and dimming candlelight.

Finally, we push our chairs back and stand. We nod our heads in respect and gratitude to our good and gracious host, and we leave the red tent forever changed.

A vast red tent. An expansive table. A seat for me.

An open document. 1,000 words. Save and send.

The door closes.

Selah.

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Weekly Editor

Susan Tucker is a lifelong lover of story, and with curiosity and openness, she often explores in her writing the tension that life holds. A former English teacher, Susan loves meaningful use of language, especially when used to stir the soul and whet one’s appetite for more truth, goodness, and beauty. Compelled by a burgeoning interest in trauma recovery, she pursued training at The Allender Center, completing the Certificate in Narrative Focused Trauma Care, Level I and Level 2. Susan and Tim, her husband of 30 years, are the parents of two sons, now young adults, and are adjusting to a nest that, while different, is far from empty.nbsp

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