Five Minute Observations is all about incarnational storytelling. It puts you in the room while that person or character is living it. Most storytelling ascribes values to describe them. The difference is feeling it. Incarnational storytelling helps you feel it before its named.
Here’s why that matters. A well-told story makes you an audience. Incarnational storytelling makes you a witness. An audience watches. A witness carries something out of the room.
As an example, I’m going to break down one of my own stories, called “Between the Buildings.” The whole story is this: I’m walking through the breezeway at Gibson to refill my water bottle. Someone calls my name. I almost don’t stop. That’s it. The whole story. But look at how it’s drafted and you’ll discover why it’s doing what I set out to show you: Show up. Stay. Risk it all. There are four things at work here.
Proximity. That’s essential for an incarnational story. Manufactured proximity, the kind coming from an agenda, is disingenuous. You need to be there, putting yourself in the same space as someone else’s ordinary life. You Almost Walk By
Five Minute Observations is all about incarnational storytelling. It puts you in the room while that person or character is living it. Most storytelling ascribes values to describe them. The difference is feeling it. Incarnational storytelling helps you feel it before it’s named.
Here’s why that matters. A well-told story makes you an audience. Incarnational storytelling makes you a witness. An audience watches. A witness carries something out of the room.
As an example, I’m going to break down one of my own stories, called “Between the Buildings.” The whole story is this: I’m walking through the breezeway at Gibson to refill my water bottle. Someone calls my name. I almost don’t stop. That’s it. The whole story. But look at how it’s drafted, and you’ll discover why it’s doing what I set out to show you: Show up. Stay. Risk it all. There are four things at work here.
Proximity. That’s essential for an incarnational story. Manufactured proximity, the kind coming from an agenda, is disingenuous. You need to be there, putting yourself in the same space as someone else’s ordinary life. For this post, I was getting water, a mundane occurrence that had nothing to do with showing up. That detail matters because it tells the reader that what follows wasn’t a program or schedule. It just meant I had to be somewhere I already was — and not walk by.
Specificity is the second thing. You need proof. What threw me off? His new glasses. That one detail tells you I was close enough to see his face. It carries the whole before-and-after of the story. Before: dark circles, same clothes for days, a trucker hat. After: polo shirt, clean jeans, sharp tennis shoes, and new glasses. I described what I saw. The reader puts the rest together.
Restraint is the third and hardest element of incarnational storytelling. “I almost kept walking. Not because I was in a hurry. Just because. That’s the most honest answer I have.” I could explain what just because means, but I chose instead to name the almost, set it down, and move on.
The payoff. It’s the final element where incarnational storytelling lives or dies. It’s the crossroads when the reader arrives at the conclusion themselves. The post ends like this: I spent an hour each week for several weeks with this man. Saw him on his worst days. Now I see him. Really see him. I wrote those three words at the end. The reader fills it in.
Incarnational storytelling. You show up in a moment, notice what’s there, resist the urge to explain it, and most importantly, you trust your reader to carry the rest. You practice presence. The same way you practice it in a breezeway between two buildings. On the way to refill your water bottle. This isn’t just a writing principle.
And you almost walk by.
More from Five Minute Observations
Between the Buildings — The story this post breaks down. Read it first or read it after. Either way works.
Stickability — Why some things stay with you, and most don’t.
Invisible — What changes when you pay attention to the person right in front of you.
Why I’d Be a Terrible Counselor — On the hardest kind of restraint.
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