An article I was looking at in the Liguorian Magazine is really worthwhile. It talks about the stories of our families, the wonderful, compelling, sometimes humorous stories that make people real, human.
As the article mentions, tweets just don't make the grade when we want to know more about the lives of the saints or the saints in our families. Those unforgettable characters that brought a special grace to our lives, or influenced us to fight the good fight. Stories require rounding out, details, sights, smells, tastes, hugs.
As I've talked about before, one of the wonderful things about working at The University of Akron for 23 years was being able to take continuing education classes for free -- one per semester. I took a fiction writing class a number of different times over a period of years. One of those times, a lady in the class misunderstood the purpose of the class because she wanted to chronicle the life of her father. She wanted to preserve the stories that wove such a rich tapestry of his view of the world, flaws and all. So she didn't want to write fiction at all -- she wanted to tell his stories for the rest of her family.
At each class, we would read our assignments out loud. Hers drew the loudest laughter and reaction of any of them. I sometimes found myself wiping away tears from my eyes because of her astute telling of the stories of her father. He was a very suspicious, superstitious man, having grown up in the Depression and also coming from another country. Once, he apparently sold a mattress to the neighbor. That in itself is pretty strange. Who buys used mattresses?
Well, at any rate, once the transaction was complete and the neighbor took possession of the mattress, the man had second thoughts. He was one to hide things in the house -- money being one of them. He began to wonder if he had hidden any money in this particular mattress. So he started watching out the window and observing the family at every chance, hoping to notice if they suddenly seemed to be bringing goods home, if their lifestyle had changed. He obsessed about it. And it was hilarious.
At one point, she wondered out loud if her stories were actually making her father look bad, making him into a rather sordid character. None of the class saw it that way. After a while, I was pretty sure I knew her father quite well. He was a man who had been deeply hurt by the Depression.
In another instance, she told the story of a train ride she took with her suspicious father in the old country. He was always thinking the worst of other people. Apparently, at some point during the train ride, there was a delay since a large boulder had fallen on the tracks. She said, "I'm pretty sure my father willed that rock to fall down from the hillside." See what she was getting at? His negativism was a total disruption in his life, and perhaps as much as anything, she didn't want any of her family members to follow that particular lead.
It doesn't matter if you are a fabulous writer or even if you can write a perfect sentence. Write down the stories of your family. Put all of it down on paper, because otherwise all of this great lore will be lost. No one will remember what Great Uncle George did that one Thanksgiving. Or how Grandmother Smith screwed up the Christmas dinner. Or how little Susie loved Jesus so much when she was little that she sacrificed to give her money to the poor. Why do we love The Christmas Story? Because it is a story -- a story about a particular time in a family's life. It is a picture painted in words and brought into the movie, enriched by the narration of the author himself. It evokes feelings.
Write down the stories. Save the memories, especially the ones that pertain to our faith life. My grandmother died in church in Cleveland, Ohio. Wouldn't I love to know more about her and her love of God? There are no stories to fill in the gaps or answer my questions.
Start small. And then keep going.
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