Family Archives - The Messy Middle

I’m glad we told him {don’t wait!}

Today marks the five-year-anniversary of Dad’s death. Days like today seem a bit like “time binoculars,” bringing an event or a person into crisp detail. Or, if you look through the other side, making the same person minute and hard to see.

If I close my eyes, we are gathered around his bed and have just made the decision to cancel our appointment with a funeral home, sensing his time on earth was drawing to an end. We, his tribe of women, lined his bed, all wanting to be equally near him and each other. And then the silence. Was it a long paused between breaths or had he died? In a few moments we knew, he was no longer with us.

If I open my eyes, and root myself in this current year and think of all the events and common days he has missed, it feels like he has been gone forever. Surely Dad was here when my books were published. Surely Dad was here when this life forming event happened to a family member. Surely he has seen Niece One drive and Niece Two learning to drive and Niece Three already in high school marching band and Niece Four becoming a sports fan. Surely he knows that Laura has become a voice over talent and Elizabeth (and Del) are preparing to launch their first and are now college tour experts. Surely he has seen how well his bride has navigated life without him. Not because he isn’t missed every day, but because he prepared her, and us, so well for the potential of his not being here.

How has he missed out on so much? How?

At Christmas time I was digging around in the piano bench and found one of the last birthday presents we gave him, a word cloud describing Tom Young through our eyes. Using Word It Out (free word cloud software), we let him know how we saw him.

As you can see, it’s not fancy. I printed it—free “Word it out” logo too—on brown paper, bought a cheap matte, and then lined the top and bottom with craft paper we had. While it could look so much more professional or Pinterest or Instagram worthy or whatever, can I tell you, five years out from the last time we held Dad’s hand, I do not care one hoot about how homemade it looks. I am flooded with gratitude that we moved beyond intention to action and made this for him.

As I read it and try to remember who said which word, I smile because this list captures him well. The depth, randomness, and playfulness of the words are an accurate picture of Tom Young. I’m fairly certain, “Knows me well” was added by one of his granddaughters, which brings tears to my eyes. What a legacy, to know your grandchildren! Some words or phrases are family jokes or lines, and today they are balloon memories, floating around giving me a place to focus. “Speaker of TA Hua” refers to the Chinese word “hua” which is a language or dialect. My dad was a native speaker of his own language, always making sense to himself, yet sometimes we needed him to translate from TA Hua into English. With a chuckle, he always did.

I am so grateful that while we had the time, we told him what he meant to our family. In those last minutes on earth when his body was fading, his mind so foggy, and his race done, on a deep soul level he knew. He knew who he was and he knew he was loved and he knew he could go peacefully.

We saw him as (a):

Christ-follower

Chuckle-y

Brother

Native (Coloradan)

Baby Penguin

Broncos fan

Playful

Caring

Grandpa

Son

Gentle

Husband

Dedicated

Great at math

Intelligent

Engineer

Humorous

Waffle Dancer

Elder

Father

P.E. (Professional Engineer)

Kind

Knows me well

Smart

Cheerful

Logical

Helpful

Gifted Napper

High spirited

Speaker of TA Hua

Cuddly Shark

Sudouker-er

Loving

Dad, you were all that and more. And today we miss and celebrate and love you.

Amy on behalf of your people :)

P.S. Here are a few of the posts I’ve written on other anniversaries of Dad’s death.

The Paradox of Life and Death

Sunday is our “Quantum Leap”

The Downside of doing your good deeds in private

This is our passion week

Family, Grief

The Paradox of Life and Death

Today marks the fourth anniversary of my dad’s death.

After spending several days in the liminal space between life and death, he died at 2:02 p.m. surrounded by the tribe who called him husband, father, and father-in-law. We kissed his hollowed-out-by-disease-and-death-cheeks an hour or so later for the last time and went to Elizabeth’s home before his granddaughters returned from school.

You know how a few scenes get seared in your memory? I remember sitting there, all of us adults waiting for them. First Granddaughter returned from junior high and her eyes lit up at the sight of all of us, followed by the quick realization “Wait, if they are all here, that means . . . ” and going immediately to her mother, burying her face because death is so shocking even when expected, it must be borne alone for a moment.

The scene was repeated within the hour when the other three returned from their school. And together we sat as a family, letting the reality of the new normal sink in. We would still gather as a tribe, but never again with him in person.

We are now four years out. Four years is enough to be confusing. Within the same sentence we speak as if he had been dead for years and years and also as if it has only been a short while.

Last weekend I found more piles of papers and notebooks in the basement. One thick three-ringed binder stood out to me. My dad was the co-chairman of the pastor search committee in the early 90s; the notebook held the minutes from every meeting and several applications. Every application, still in the enveloped it was mailed in, had a check list stapled to it and had been completed by a committee member—complete with a brief handwritten summary of what stood out to them about a candidate.

None of this is that spectacular. Churches form search committees the world over.

What struck me was how so much of what my father believed in and embodied was preserved in that notebook. The committee met almost weekly for twenty months. Twenty! For a frame of reference, I pulled out my phone and counted back twenty months to June of 2016.

About a year into the process, they had a final candidate and called him, which is church-speak for “offered him the job.” At the last minute, the candidate withdrew.

Oh the agony!! All that work “wasted.” What could the committee do, but regroup and keep opening envelopes and completing check lists they would staple to the front. Eventually another candidate was called and the final minutes were written and placed in a notebook. To be left in the basement. To be found by a daughter nearly twenty five years later. To serve as evidence.

Let’s start with the obvious, again, the legacy of paper. I keep thinking there cannot possibly be any more news clippings, cards, bank statements, or notebooks left to sort through. And I keep being wrong. What I see now, four years out, is that I seriously underestimated my father’s ability to find beauty and meaning in the minute of life. The ordinary is worth recording and remembering.

He was a person also who embodied loyalty and dedication for the long haul, even in the face of disappointment. Week after week his name was on the minutes under “attended.” But his was not the only name. Ellie, Mike, Butch, and others appear again and again. Dad valued being a part of a group, he was no lone wolf. Being a part of a committee is beautiful and messy, and in the end, worth it.

Four years is enough time for the raw shock of grief to have sifted away, replaced by the dull ache of loss. I have been thinking of the paradox of life and death.

Some people are alive, but mostly dead on the inside. Others are dead, but yet still alive.

Tom Young, my father, is the second. He lived in such a way, that though dead, he is also still alive. He challenges me to live in the same way. While I will leave far less paperwork than he, I still know my life will be sorted through some day. Files I meant to get to, or pictures that meant the world to me, or part of my life I couldn’t bear to part with in life, will be looked at and evaluated by friends and family.

My hope and prayer is that I will be found in a similar state to my dad: invested in people, valuing relationships, being part of commitments that far out live me, having one hell of a ride (he had more broken bones than anyone I’ve known), and a laugh that filled a room.

Dad, it has been four years since we kissed your cheeks goodbye. I don’t think this will surprise you, but I look at old men now for a glimpse of you in them. I recently went up to an old man at the end of a church service and told him I had a strange request, that it was nearing the anniversary of my dad’s death and he reminded me of you. Could I hug him? He stepped away from his walker and embraced me. I miss you. I love you. I wanted to talk about the Broncos all fall with you! I hope you knew how much you are still with us, what a difference your life made. How we are all the richer because of you. And that when the day comes that I find and sort through your final piece of paper, I will wish you had kept even more . .. though not really :). You still make me laugh. Your generosity with time and money challenge me (and I know Elizabeth and Laura too!). The way you loved Mom and us, your family, is the gift that keeps on giving and giving. Thank you. With love, Amy

Faith, Family, Grief

Sunday is our “Quantum Leap”

In the early 90s I was hooked on the show Quantum Leap. Seeing time as a line, the main character could time travel when the line bent and touched another date; so if today and November 7, 1964 touched, he would suddenly find himself surrounded by poodle skirts or whatever the fashion was in 1964.

This year, Sunday is our quantum leap.

It is Super Bowl Sunday.

It is also the third anniversary of the death of Tom Young.

All the Super Bowls involving the Broncos.

The last week of his life.

The last three years.

They all oddly mix and merge and will touch each other on Sunday.

I say oddly because . . . even though it has been three years and he had Hep C for decades, death is still odd. We are no longer in shock, but I don’t know if we will ever be familiar with death. That begin said, three years out is far enough to see that the anchor of love and relationship really is deep enough to hold the test of time.

My first Super Bowl Sunday was January 15, 1978 when a certain team from Texas beat the Broncos. Dad, Mom, and Aunt Bobbye were in New Orleans cheering on the Broncos and growing wearing of the Dallas ladies in full-length fur coats making fun of the “hicks” from Colorado. My sisters and I were not abandoned to fend for ourselves, as Grandma and Grandpa Young stayed with us.

I won’t go Super Bowl by Super Bowl, but you can see how footfall and family are woven together. Jumping forward to his last Super Bowl, the 2013 AFC Championship game in Denver is the last active memory Del and I have of doing something with Dad (after that most of the memories involve hospitals). I think Dad used so much of his energy to be there with us. I also know this, if you were to ask him if it was worth it, with he would just give you one of his famous “beaky looks.” Silly question, of course it was worth it.

But then two weeks later, have said goodbye to Laura as she flew home—we thought we had more time—he ate his last meal of pulled pork and popcorn. Elizabeth made both and brought them to the hospital. Football and family. The game was humiliating and awful, but because he was dying, no one rubbed our faces in it and we didn’t really care.

And then on Wednesday, he died.

This Sunday, around 2:00, we can’t help but remember his death, it is part of our Quantum Leap. On that February 5th, we had an appointment scheduled with the mortuary because his time was drawing near. We discussed who would go to the appointment and who would stay with Dad and then we realized, “This is silly! These moments are precious.” The meeting was cancelled and we all stayed.

And this is how everyone should die, surrounded by their loved ones, having lived a rich and broad life, and on a numerically interesting time (2:22, in his case).

On Sunday afternoon, we will remember how we went to Elizabeth’s house to be there before the girls got home from school. As they entered the house, each face registered a brief moment of shock. What are you all doing here? And then you could see it hit them. No, no, as they buried their faces in a parent’s chest.

But at 4:30? We will remember last year! Woot, woot! Laura had flown out to Denver so we could all watch the Denver Broncos take on the Carolina Panthers. When we gather and the subject of the Broncos comes up, the stories take on their own quantum leaps as we jump from this year to that. We recall this funny or annoying thing one of us did.

What I have learned in this third year of his present absence is that the story will continue. I have written before about the down side of doing your good deeds in private; when you die, all of your stuff comes out because you are no longer your main PR person. What I had not factored in is that more always exists to learn. It may just be a nugget, but those nuggets? Pure gold.

I’ve mentioned how my dad never met a piece of paper he didn’t want to keep forever. At first this annoyed me, but now I’m grateful because it allows us to continue to know him. Recently I have been going through and shredding every tax document he ever touched. People. we are talking all the way back to before he even knew my mom. Want to see the instructions for filing taxes in 1972? I can hook you up.

Over and over, Tom Young proved himself faithful to his family and the non-profits he supported. I was reminded afresh how he quietly did what was right over the long haul. He was willing to accurately report what needed to be reported, but if he was told he owed money he didn’t owe, he was willing to document and involve legal help to support him. (He was the trustee to at least four of his aunts and uncles, so taxes could get a little complex.)

I am humbled and blessed because of the quietly consistent choices he and Mom made to set their children up for adulthood.

So, this Sunday our Quantum Leap touches on football and family; I can’t say I’ll be watching the same game you all will. Instead, I think I’ll watch last year’s game.

We will gather as a family and as the day passes and certain times come and go, we will be transported in time.

Dad, we still think of you often, talk of you regularly, and see your influence in the world. We miss you and love you. I think those constants will remain no matter how much time passes.

And to you, my reader. Grief is no longer as sharp and she offers gifts I don’t always want to receive; yet one of her gifts is you. This community and the ways you bear this loss with me and with us, even offering your own losses, helps us to bear it. Thank you. Amy for all Youngs, Smiths, and Purdies

Monday Amy, you didn’t know {This is our passion week}

Winner of Katharina and Martin Luther: The Radical Marriage of a Runaway Nun and a Renegade Monk has been notified. Thanks all :).

Book, Family, Personality

What pushed me to yell at birds

This Velvet Ashes Book Club (which I lead) is currently reading Consider the Birds by Debbie Blue. Last week the chapter we read was about the sparrow. I laughed when Debbie ran into her friend and neighbor Diane in the driveway. “‘I need to talk to you about sparrows.” She may not have exactly narrowed her eyes, but that’s how I remember it.’ And later at the birthday party when Debbie couldn’t help bringing up the subject of sparrows again. We’ve all been there, haven’t we, when we can’t help but talk about a subject even though we know others don’t want to talk about it.

I had no idea the sweet sparrow was known by birders as HOSP—HOuse SParrow on bird forums—and produced such passionate responses from people. As I read this chapter, I couldn’t imagine getting so worked up over a bird.

And then I remembered my grandma.

As a child from Colorado, when we visited my grandparents in Michigan (two days drive away) it was exciting to see cardinals and bluejays—about the only two birds I can actually identify because one is red and the other blue. My grandparents loved birds and even counted birds one year for the Audubon society. They had bird feeders outside of most of the windows and conversations were often sprinkled with commentary of what was happening outside.

It was at the kitchen table I learned, “Bluejays are hogs! HOGS!”—pounding on the window—”I did not put that food out there for you, you HOG, go away!” More pounding. Since I didn’t have a bird in the fight, so to speak, it was mildly funny watching someone get so riled up about a bird.

Fast forward to this past summer. Oh, God has a sense of humor. Humming birds built a nest in a tree near my sister’s house. Humming birds are cute! Their babies are tiny and adorable. My nieces would call with updates and hummingbird sightings and facts. So fun. So exciting. So small. So cute!

Crows built a nest in the tall tree across the street from Mom and me. After the babies hatched they seemed to be instantly the size of their parents. Maybe not, but that’s how it seemed to me from the ground.

Their nest was in a perfectly fine tree surrounded by perfectly fine trees; but the parents decided the perfect place to train the adolescent crows on how to be crows was in our backyard. Every morning and afternoon the entire awful crow family would fly over to our trees and spend time in “Crow School.”

Turns out crow school involves a lot of sitting around (Why?! Why?! You are birds. Fly.) and squawking incessantly and defecating. On more than one occasion I actually went outside and screamed at them to be quiet and to take their training lessons elsewhere. Um, so maybe I can picture getting riled up over a bird.

My sister Laura has a tattoo of a crow on the majority of her forearm. Before she visited this summer, I warned her to be prepared to regret that decision after she saw upfront how AWFUL crows are (incessant squawking makes me cranky). Guess what those cheeky crows did?! They hung out at the end of street during her entire visit. What?! She would laugh at me when we would drive past them and I’d yell at them to never visit again. So, her love of crows (or me) wasn’t dented.

The day after she left—the very next day—two of the crows came over in the morning. Seriously? Are birds that smart?! I admit to checking if this book had a chapter on crows, because I didn’t think I had it in me. Smile. As I read about the crazed HOSP folks, I thought about the crazed person in my mirror. And how God uses birds, and books, and you in my life.

What animals or birds have pestered/taught you lesson?

Family, Holiday

#TakeBackTheStreets

So much life happens on the streets of China.

Breakfast stands pop up.

Fruit and veggies to be sold.

Poop (some might say a little too much life).

Dancing, badminton, car washes.

Life, life, life! Let’s #TakeBackTheStreets

Without garages to pull into and the high value of private space, life is engaged to a degree that is different than life in the West.

People, we have an opportunity next Monday night to get out there and mingle with our neighbors. One of my very first blog posts encourage people to “Take back the streets.” In part I said:

I have mixed feeling about the “Fall Festivals” that have become the norm at many churches and other places of gathering. Part of me applauds the church looking for ways to be a haven and being willing to open their doors instead of close them. But another part is kind of turned off by the withdrawal and segregation. It’s the ONE night a year in America where we are socially sanctioned to wander around our neighborhoods, knock on each other’s doors and greet one another. The ONE night. And what have we done, we have said safety is more important than engagement (I told you, you might not agree).

*****

The main push back I have gotten is over the origin of Halloween. I really never intended to take a massive stand on Halloween. The truth is I care about relationships and finding connecting points. I don’t know much about the origins of Halloween and, frankly, it doesn’t really interest me because I believe nothing, absolutely nothing is beyond the hope of redemption.

Do bad things happen on Halloween? Sure. Do bad things happen other night of the year and in the name of evil. Absolutely (and tragically so). Do I ABHOR the evil perpetrated against children or cats? Big fat yes.

But as one who bears the Image of God, I also bear the image of fun and creativity and playfulness. Of connection and joy and giggles. Of memory building and traditions. Do I delight that God made us in His image? Bigger, Fatter Y-E-S.

Now, can you just tun off your lights and not engage on Monday night and still be an Image Bearer? Of course. And that’s fine!

However, if you’re looking for some creative ideas for Monday, here are a few I’ve heard:

1. A group of teachers in China live in a building shared with graduate students. They hung up a sign explaining about Trick-or-Treating and asked students who would be willing for foreign children to Trick-or-Treat to hang up one of the provided pumpkins.

2. A family in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania hands out hot dogs to those passing by their house. A few years ago they wrote to a record label and and pitched the idea of Christmas Music CD’s being handed out with hot dogs. The record label LOVED the idea and sent 100 of David Crowder’s CD. My friends are not all that taken with Halloween, but they are taken with their neighbors and with Christmas. I only wish I lived closer because who doesn’t love a hot dog on a cold night?!

3. A church in Denver held their Fall Festival on Saturday night to free up their congregation on Halloween.

4. My sister and her family have started leaving a bowl of candy on their front porch so no one has to stay home. We get to wander their neighborhood as a family connecting with neighbors and fellow Trick-or-Treaters. (For the third year in a row, we have a themed costume. Only four of us can go, so we are going to be the four seasons. I’ll be summer, you know, cause I’m hot. HAHAHA. That is not why I’m summer!)

Engagement can come in many forms, be creative. Find one that works for you, your stage of life, your family and your personality.

I’d love to hear more ideas of ways you have found to engage and connect with folks. Anyone else planning a costume this year? Use #TakeBackTheStreets on Facebook or Instagram and let’s see the light and fun and JOY you can bring to your neck of the woods.

China, Family, Learning lessons

Your driving doesn’t scare me and other lessons from China

The summer of 1992 changed me forever.

I spent it teaching English in Hefei. Ask me about that summer and I’ll tell you about the heat. I’ll tell you about the sweat that would trickle down my back at 7:45 a.m. as I walked to class. I’ll tell you about gathering around a freshly sliced watermelon with my students and learning about trying to cool down eating juicy fruit. I’ll tell you about the culture lectures I helped put on and how I was in a Christmas play in July. I’ll tell you when we showed the movie Hoosiers to our students and I knew the deep ache of loving your home country from afar. I’ll tell you about sobbing so hard at the end of the summer my teammates believed I had fallen in love under their noses.

What I will fail to tell you is how Chinese driving began to seep into me. Nowadays laws are to be followed. Then, let’s just say the roads were the wild west. Lanes mere suggestions. Stop lights more like check-to-see-no-cops-lights. You passed on the left. You passed on the right. You drove through cars coming the opposite direction. You thought you might die and wondered why you didn’t see more accidents.

Guess when these experiences will come in handy? Years, and years later when your oldest niece is 15 and learning to drive.

Courting 2016 style

Far into the future, on a Saturday night while hanging out at a family gathering you’ll look at your niece and say, “Hey, want to go for a drive?” Now, this invitation has been rejected more time than if you tried to score against Lebron James. Cool, cool, cool. Her choice, truly. She throws you all when she says, “Sure.”

Her youngest sister is allowed to ride in the car with the strict warning, “You are to say nothing. Get it? Do not make one comment.” Oh we all get it. You assure her she can drive around the cul-de-sac neighborhood at whatever speed she would like. There is no rush. Only you never imagined a person could drive so slowly that the automatic locks scare you all about ten minutes later when she finally hits the speed that locks the car. You joke that you now understand what it must have been like to court in the 1800s when a boy took a girl out for a slow ride in a buggy. Turns out this is not a time for joking.

But courage begets courage and she’s willing to venture onto other residential streets. Often enough you go out driving together and it truly is fun. Only once did she ask you not to wince and only once did you say, trying to be calm but avoid getting rear-ended, “It is OKAY that we missed the turn. PLEASE DO NOT SLOW DOWN. YOU NEED TO HIT THE GAS, we cannot stop in the intersection of this major street when the light is still green. No worries, it’s all good. We’ll just go up to the next light BUT SERIOUSLY YOU NEED TO ACCELERATE.”

Turns out she likes driving with you more than other adults because her driving doesn’t make you as nervous as other adults.

And then it hits you.

Of course it doesn’t make you nervous. You’ve ridden in China. For years. Boom. Hidden talent. Thank you China.

Her mom comments that she takes corners too fast. And you wonder if you are the best to help her because, now that her mom mentions it, yeah, she is a bit like a Chinese driver rounding a corner. You hadn’t really noticed.

All that aside, if you are in the Denver area and have a child who needs to learn to drive, let me know. Riding with burgeoning drivers is a trip down memory lane. It is a way to visit China without needing a visa. It is a way to use experiences I never thought would transfer to America. It is a way to be me in unexpected ways. Truly, give me a call.

And other China peeps, might I suggest you find a new driver and bless them with time spent together learning to drive? Seriously. Chinese driving is the gift that keeps on giving.

{If you know this niece of mine, while not ready to go public with her skills, when it is time I tell you, there will be no more responsible driver on the streets. Okay, with maybe a bit of an aggressive streak. She is, after all, part Young! She read this post and approved it before it went public—all but the aggressive streak. Since it is more about her grandpa, mom, and aunts, she let me keep it in :)}

Faith, Family, Grief

Why I recommend waiting 2.5 years to bury a loved one

First of all, to all of you who buried loved ones in the culturally normal time frame closer to death, bless you. This is not meant to sprinkle regret on anyone. But sometimes life happens in different ways than is “culturally normal” and the way you mark a loved one can vary.

As you know, Tom Young, my dad, died in early February of 2014. If you missed it, you can read about it here, here, here, and here.

(Oh my. I just reread the posts on the process of Dad dying. So fresh. So far away. Still tears.)

His death was rather unexpected and planning a memorial service was a bit like planning a wedding reception in under five days when you are exhausted and in shock and having to make a ridiculous amount of decisions. Because he was cremated and we didn’t have a burial plot we liked prepared—we had one, but decided not to use it and to wait for the right place—there was no urgency.

And time went by.

We chose a place in the mountains and while they can do winter burials, it didn’t seem necessary for the cemetery workers to go to all of effort of digging up frozen ground. My sister Elizabeth has been spectacular about working with Mom and the cemetery folks on all of the details (mainly getting a headstone and this special box you have to bury an urn in and coordinating the date and time).

Saturday morning found two cars of Youngs, Smiths, and a Purdie driving up the mountain for the burial.

It was just our family and the cemetery allowed us to do whatever we wanted. While it is a bit odd to wait 2.5 years to bury someone, I recommend it.

When a loved one dies, you think you know what you are mourning. And you are right. And you are wrong. Waiting a bit helps you to know what it is you have actually lost. We have now lived with his absent presence for long enough to know what is fading (and not so important) and what will live on and on. Unlike the memorial service where you need to focus on many aspects, here, we could focus on Dad.

In this picture we are getting organized. Wasn’t it a lovely day?

We brought his picture for our time together. The roses are from his sister and the zinnias are from his garden, Dad did love his zinnias! I’ll tell you about the whoppers and cookies in a minute.

We took some photos of our family together.

We then gathered in a circle a spent time sharing a memories and what we miss. We cried. We laughed. We ended by each eating a whopper and cookie in his honor. He is like me, related to amazing foodies, but having a rather easy to please palate :)!

Grief still hurts and is exhausting. I’m sure there is a scientific reason about why crying makes one tired, but in the moment, who cares about science? You just know you are weary.

Dad gave us a gift in our grief because our grief is out of abundance. Abundance of his love for us, his enthusiasm for life, his being more interested in who we are as people than what we do, his love for the Lord, his generous spirit. Granddaughter on the far right brought the giraffe he gave her. Each girl cried (we all did!) as we shared. While they will forget a bit about their grandpa, they can’t help it :) . . . I can see that they will remember what is important.

Waiting more than two years may not work for your family. But if you aren’t quite ready to bury them (for any number of reasons!), don’t think you haven’t “done it right.” There are many ways to mourn a loved one.

We left to have lunch together and as we were leaving town we stopped by to see the finished result. It is still surreal to see a parent’s name etched in stone with a date when they died. I think it always will be . . . and that’s okay. The strangeness reminds me death is not supposed to be familiar, life is.

My dad lived a life that mattered. He made small investments every day in people and projects. His legacy is deep and wide. What you do today is not-insignificant. Be kind to strangers. Be there for your family and friends. Approach your work with seriousness, but make plenty of time for fun. Make funny noises when you think that will make your family laugh when they recall it. Be willing to take a stand for what is right.

It turns out that an ordinary life is the real fairy tale.

Family, Just for fun

Try this at your next party

Tuesday was a family birthday. The day before I mentioned a website I learned about called 100 Word Story, where every month hundreds of people submit stories of just 100 words. I thought it would be fun to try and write a story in only 100 words. Why not, right? It’s not a whole novel, after all.

Because the birthday was for an 11 year old, we decided to each write a 111 word story, read them out loud, and then pick a winner.

Only one person balked. She’s eight, so we gave her a pass. Instead she wrote and illustrated an 11 word sentence.

We set the timer for 30 minutes, a hush fell over the room, and off we wrote. “We” involved a grandma, a mom, a dad, an aunt, and three under the age of 16. The only sound was an occasional clarification like, “Is ‘drive-up’ one word or two?”

Time was called and we took turns reading out stories. What was created went beyond any of our imaginations. People, this ended up being an awesome (though maybe a bit geeky) idea.

We had a story about

watching a hummingbird
a puppet finding his “forever family”
a kidnapped pet (by me?! Clearly fiction.)
a friendship between an old woman and a girl
orphan boys building a town (this child also wrote another story in the allotted time!)
and a boy who loved fireworks

I didn’t get permission from others, so I share my story, not because it is the best, but to give you a sense of an 111 word story.

The Champ (by Amy Young)

She was an unlikely champion. It had all started on a whim when her friend dared her to sign up for the arm wrestling club at school. At first Anna scoffed, but the offer of a bag of yogurt covered pretzels turned out to be too great a temptation to pass up. During the first club meeting, Anna assumed the fastest way to her beloved pretzels was to challenged the reigning champion, a sixth grader nicknamed The Ox. Anna planted her elbow on the table, waved toward him and said, “Ox, let’s get this over with.” No one paid much attention until a thunk was heard and Ox’s reign was over.

///

Truly, the stories were amazing and everyone could participate. Today, write a 100 word story and share in the comments just for fun. You can do it, you can. At your next family gathering, it might sound weird, but I can almost promise, magic will happen.

Try it :)!

Family, Learning lessons, Messy Middle

Why you need to prioritize your life

The summer you turned 12 was a right of passage in our family. Finally you were old enough to get on a plane by yourself and fly out to spend time alone with Aunt Bobbye and then board another plane (or be driven) to Michigan for alone time with Grandma and Grandpa Farley.

Oh the memories of the summer I was 12! Fresh raspberries, spotting Michael Jordan in the airport, playing cribbage, laughing, riding a lawnmower (WHAT?! You mean technology existed that didn’t involve you shoving a lawnmower up a slight hill and grunting? Miracles are real!).

This final week of June has been much anticipated this spring. Niece #1 has a missions trip and Nieces #3 and #4 are at summer camp, leaving #2 (perfectly aged 12) with a week all alone to spend at Camp Grandma (and Aunt Amy, but Camp Grandma rolls off the tongue better).

For the last few months, Niece #2 would say, “We can do that the last week in June!” give me a nudge, tilt her head and bat her eyes in this very #2 way. Ideas include learn cube roots (we know how to party!), bring an Algebra 1 book, teach me how to play the Pandemic Board Game, go to a waterpark, and eat breakfast at a restaurant. You might think you know which one of those were my idea . . . and you might be wrong. Just saying.

She’s also been huggy with Grandma and when it was suggested that her time at Camp Grandma be shortened (I forget now why. It might have been a joke!), it was met with, “No, no, no, no, no.” Camp Grandma is one of the highlights of this summer’s plans.

A few weeks ago I read Essentialism: The Disciplined Pursuit of Less by Greg McKeown—this book will be on my best reads of 2016. I truly believe anyone who wants to lead a meaningful life could benefit from reading this book. If your team or committee or some other group you are a part of is looking for a book read and discuss as a group, this is it.

One entire section is devoted to “how we can discern the trivial many from the vital few.” As I read that section, I was reminded of Dallas Willard’s sage wisdom, “Ruthlessly eliminate hurry.”

Why do so many of us hurry? Because we are living undisciplined lives of pursuing more. The disciplined pursuit of less may leave you feeling like you will miss out (at least that is how I often feel). But this week of Camp Grandma is a prime example.

McKeown rightly said, “If you don’t prioritize your life, someone else will.” He learned this key life lesson as he spent the hours after his daughter’s birth on a work call, not with his wife and daughter.

I have cancelled all but two activities this week. Life is knocking on the door and her cries can be legitimate. Were I to tell #2 I need to spend some time working on X, Y, or Z, they not only sound legitimate, they are legitimate. But are they a priority for this week? This longed for and anticipated week?

No.

Part of living in the messy middle is living out our values in reality and not in theory.

So, this week, I’ll be at Camp Grandma and I’m going to protect the week like my soul depends on it, because in a small way, it does.

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Family, Just for fun, Learning lessons

Memories of Learning to Drive

Niece #1 is in driving school this week. What?! I know. I know.

You can guess the conversations that have gone on this spring building up to one of our clear, tangible, (and risky for parents) rights of passage.

Being middle-aged is like being in a movie with flashback scenes. It has been years since I thought about learning to drive, yet now the memories float to the forefront.

My first driving experience was in 7th grade. I had gone with my dad to a work site. I remember sitting in the car and reading Something About Joey as I waited for Dad to finish. When he did, he asked if I wanted to learn to drive. Sure! We drove around a big, empty, dirt site.

In my next driving memory, I was soon to get my driving permit and my family was driving to Southern Colorado to visit my grandparents. We were taking deserted, narrow highways and Dad thought it would be good to practice driving a large van with my entire family in it. Overall, a reasonable idea! As the oldest, two crucial life lessons emerged for my sisters and me:

1. Do not drive over a cattle grid at full speed. If you don’t slow down, you will bounce every passenger so hard they will hit the ceiling. And squawk.

2. When you want to stop a vehicle, do not stomp on the brake pedal or you will send your mother and two sisters flying off to the back bench (pre-mandatory seatbelt days). They will all remember it for the rest of their days and most likely will still be talking about it in the life to come. Instead, gently push on the brake.

The final driving memory I’ll share also involves my dad (I think we practiced driving as much with Mom as with Dad, so I’m not sure why all of my memories are with Dad.). In addition to the big Dodge van, we had some small car with the emergency brake being a pull-up handle between the drivers. Dad would ride in the passenger seat with his hand on the brake, ready to pull it up at a moments notice. Really, was that necessary? Had I not already demonstrated my amazing braking ability?!

Let’s stop talking about driving here, because it was shortly after I got my license that I totaled two cars in one early morning adventure.

Were you a reluctant driver, or maybe a little over eager?What memories do you have of learning to drive?

P.S. Having lived for years in a country where I didn’t drive, it was alway weird to see American friends driving in America for the first time. I know you can … but it’s still weird!