Critical Thinking - Story

I seem to be getting hit over the head by the concept of story, lately—~brb’s article on family Christmas stories included.

I can be very post modern in my thinking. I am a latchkey-kid-dysfunctional-family-(non-abusive)-20-years-old-in-the-Pac-NW-grunge-era-Gen-Xer. There were strong characters in my family, but not a strong sense of history. Lots of stories, but few actually told to my generation. I should have known I was in trouble the year I came home to my mom’s for Christmas just to be told we would not be allowed to open stockings before everyone else got up. I was devastated! We always opened stockings first thing. A couple of toys, a package of hot cocoa, an orange or a banana, and a small box of sugar cereal (the only time of year we could trade our Cheerios for Chocolate-Covered-Sugar-Bombs). All this, discarded, like the wrapping paper around a pair of my great-aunt’s slippers.

Yeah. I was 34. Horrified because I had to wait an hour to open my stocking. Because, apparently, early-morning stocking-opening was the apex of my family’s Christmas story.

Or, at least, it was in my mind.

This year, under the tree (yes, we did open stockings first because it’s my house and I said so!), I got Donald Miller’s A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. Don is a broken-family-VW-Bus-road-trip-find-yourself-navel-gazing-Gen-Xer, and I hate him. He always seems to eloquently say exactly what I couldn’t even identify I believed. What’s even worse is that he’s from Texas. But he lives in Portland, now, so that’s all right.

He’s written several memoirs—which is kind of interesting considering he’s a year younger than me. Anyway, some guys called him up and said they wanted to make a movie based on one of his books. Don’s a contemplative, non-fiction writer. He didn’t know from story-arch. He quickly came to realize that, although some parts of his life had been interesting to live through, as a whole it was rather boring. He started to think that the most interesting, meaningful lives were those that had a story to tell—and drew others into that story.

This isn’t necessarily a new concept. John Eldredge talks about kids needing to be brought into their family’s past. Just this summer, my friend traveled to Africa to meet his extended family. His mom is a white American. His birth-father, whom he never met, was Nigerian. My friend never did find his half-sister, but the aunts and uncles and great-grands and cousins made for a real pancake moment.

I can see this in my family. My aunt, whose mother took her two kids and left her abusive husband, took her two kids and left her abusive husband. Shortly after, she married Slim, thirty years her senior, because he pulled her out of a snow bank and she needed a babysitter.

Uncle Slim, who died just this year in his 90s, was a real, honest-to-Pete cowboy. He ran away from home at thirteen and immediately fell in with cattle rustlers. Jumped a train to escape a posse. Fought Indians in the Dakotas. Thought that a life without a small herd of cattle was a life not worth living.

My older cousin dove into this story head-first and never looked back. Barrel-racing, 4-H, milking cows, and keeping sheep—she knew her place. And she’s passed it on to her son and daughter. Her daughter races cars, barrel-races, and was Homecoming Queen. My cousin’s son is getting attention from big names for his dirt-track racing. (Yes. This is the cousin who reads NASCAR romances.)

But the same story didn’t fit her younger sister. She really couldn’t care less about cows. My aunt worked long hours sixty miles away. All else was horses, a small town, and boys. Pregnant at fifteen. Drugs. High-school drop-out.

A family friend picked her up, drove her to rehab, and invited her into a better story. She married a great guy, had more kids—found her place. She did her niece’s hair and make-up for the Homecoming Parade. (The queen’s mother was busy washing the horse.)

I didn’t really have that and, as a good Gen-Xer, didn’t think I needed it. Holidays are fine examples. Due to snow in Seattle, our Christmas last year was a last-minute ski trip. I don’t ski. I stayed in the lodge the whole time, writing. It was the most relaxing Christmas of my entire life, and I wondered why they couldn’t all be like that.

This year, the in-laws came with a car-full of presents and 130 cumulative years of expectations. They don’t even fill stockings!

So, I was sitting in church Sunday, ignoring the message, trying to figure out why we bother with the hoopla. Why kill ourselves getting presents and cooking way-too-much food that we’ll regret eating, anyway?

The thought came to me—because we wouldn’t make that big a deal over each other without it. All the self-imposed drama binds us together, writes our story. More importantly, writes the Boy’s story. (He’s the only grandchild on both sides.)

Donald Miller mentions this responsibility to continue to create our story. After he thought about his own story arch, or lack thereof, he created a foundation to promote mentoring for fatherless kids.

In his book he talks about a friend whose daughter had fallen in with a bad crowd and was falling even deeper. Don mentioned it sounded like she was living a bad story. He didn’t exactly know what he meant by this, but the dad did. He realized his daughter was living the most interesting story available to her, and it was his job to provide her with an alternative. So he went out and committed his family to raise $25,000 to build an orphanage in Mexico. After a brief period of shock and awe, the daughter—and the surprise wife—embraced this new story.

I think Catholics, with their liturgical year and rhythmic holy days, have a better grasp of this than fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants Evangelicals. I’d never even gone to a church that celebrated Advent until I was 31. You can argue about the exact role of liturgy in salvation, but you have to admit it does invite practitioners into a story that started long before them and will continue on.

My little post-modern soul is beginning to see a need for a story. One that fits our family. One that’s flexible enough to change as we, and our interests, grow. One that reflects the Great Story we’re all invited into. For many years, our story has run on without deliberation—save for the Needs of the Air Force and our own high-maintenance socio/emotional states. The military bit will disappear in eighteen short months, about the time the Boy turns ten. If we are smart, we will already have a future story loosely plotted for him to wiggle around in, find his place. If we’re not smart, the world will provide one for him.