I began engaging my parents in storywork by asking about the menu notebook created by my dad. That cloth-bound, 70’s style, denim-blue, three-ring binder filled with a month’s worth of menus was a distinct childhood memory.
I brought it up one day in their kitchen, spurred on by my own challenges with and resistance to menu-planning.
Do you remember the blue menu notebook?
They did. We reminisced a bit before I pressed in further.
What if we each wrote the menu-notebook story from our own perspective and then met to read our stories?
It was a risk, yet the menu notebook was fairly benign. For me it held childhood confusion over who was right or wrong, whether the notebook was good or bad, and why two people I loved and who seemed to be working hard in their individual ways did not seem to be on the same team.
They agreed, and we set a time to meet and share. I went home to write. Was this a good idea? The only way to find out was to try.
When our planned time rolled around the following week, we sat in a circle, each of us with our version of the story. Mom’s was written on a folded piece of paper, much like the hand-written letters I remember her composing when I was a child. She shared first at my request, since menu-planning was the presenting issue.
Dad was next, being the one with the solution. He opened his laptop like a dutiful student with a completed assignment and pulled up his story. He read through moments of laughter over shared and differing perspectives. So far, things were going well.
Finally, I pulled out my spiral-bound story notebook and read all the way to the final risky line. I had debated leaving it in or taking it out right down to the last minute. I wanted to be honest, yet kind.
Deciding that it would be honoring to the young girl inside to allow her honest question about the dynamic between her parents to be heard, I left it, reading through laughter and tears all the way to the end. Only then did I look up, not knowing what to expect.
How would my words be received?
“That last sentence. Read it again.”
“That explains the dynamic beautifully. That is how it felt between us. You have such good words.”
My parents went on discussing their relational reality, as I shared how it felt to me as a child in the middle. I felt heard, acknowledged, and seen. Somewhere inside a small girl was tended to. Words that she could not speak then were heard and received now.
Space opened up in all of our hearts. Laughter, kindness, and grief mingled together, covering us like a warm blanket. There was room to begin to explore other stories, for me and also for them. Not the plastic stories we often tell, but the real ones. I took another risk, inviting them to their young selves.
Remember Heidi the dog? I have a story about her. Do you want to share a childhood pet story of your own next time?
They agreed, and it was the beginning of our season of stories. When I tell people I am doing story work with my parents, responses vary from, Wow! I could never do that! to You’re so brave! to I wish I could talk to my parents. My response is, If you only knew what it took to get here, you would see that it did not happen overnight, and it is not for everyone.
Each of us has our own journey and call. This is mine.
Ten years ago I began looking at my own story. I was angry and hurting. At the funeral of a dear elderly woman, I felt the nudge to know and be known by my parents while there was still time.
I took a difficult story about my teenage self to them, not knowing how it would be received. Their tears, grief, and open arms revealed safe terrain. I knew there was freedom to walk further, should I choose.
From there the steps have been incremental. Some seasons have felt safer than others. The year that I dug into intense story work, they were supportive and curious but did not demand or pry. I was not ready to share more.
Now I am.
I want to name the courage of my parents to hear my words and respond from a posture of curiosity rather than defense. I want to honor their willingness to engage my memories without correcting or dismissing them. I want to thank them for creating space for love to grow by stepping with me into a season of stories.
Julie McClay lives in Virginia’s beautiful Shenandoah Valley with her high school sweetheart and four of their eight children. She is a lover of stories and words. Having completed Training Certificates 1 and 2 through the Allender Center, she continues learning to face the past honestly while living in the moment and looking towards the future. She finds story work healing and hopeful and seeks to offer this invitation of healing and hope to others. She digs through her thoughts and feelings here.
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Julie, I loved this. Your parents are courageous! As are you. I was drawn into your story immediately – holding my breath – and was so encouraged to see that curiosity cracked open into something hopeful. Thank you for engaging with them, and not just ‘about’ them. You light a path to something honorable here. Thank you.
Engaging with them and not about them is the key. Thank you for those words naming the dynamic at work. It has been a process to get here, moving from a posture of hurt and anger and blame to healing and love and understanding. So many kind souls have walked me through this, including my own children who have given me both the perspective of parent AND child. We just keep taking one step at a time into hope and healing and restoration, from generation to generation. Often I say if we did not have the hope of glory and all things becoming new, this would in no way be worth it. It would be too devastatingly painful. But we have the power of the resurrection and of seeing new life springing from ashes. It’s a beautiful thing.
I admire your courage and creativity to do this work with your parents. Such a lovely gift for them and for you. I love sharing stories with my brother and noticing the different spin we bring to the table. You idea of writing them down will be a treasure you can keep close to your heart as more stories unfold. Thank you💕MJ
Thank you! Yes, it is a gift. As we have begun sharing more individual stories in safety, more clarity has come to the bigger picture. One of my foundational statements was, “I am not trying to build a case against you or set a trap for you. I desire healing for us all.” As the oldest of seven children, there are also sibling stories and perspectives. As we all begin to share, we are able to laugh and grieve and understand more of our family story. It really is a treasure.
Dear Julie,
Thank you for sharing this great idea! There are so many ways to use the precious 24 hours we’re given each day. I’ll start praying God will help me to instigate this with my own family. Healing and changes in perspective can be wonderful results! In heaven I imagine we’ll do some of this as well, though our amazing joy at that time might blot out past pains. What do you think?
I think heaven will be a chance to see the big picture and feel the joy of all of the aha moments that we sometimes get a taste of here on earth. I often tell my husband that even though we won’t be married (because we will all be able to live in perfect relationship with everyone!) I hope we remember that we had a thing together that we survived once.
As to current day story work, I think we each have a call on our heart to where we are to bring healing. For some it’s outward. For me, in this season, it’s inward toward my family. If you are feeling a call to engage your family in story work, proceed with kindness and care. My experience is that engaging your own story first will help others begin to be curious about theirs.
Dearest Julie,
Thank you so much for your thoughtful reply. Your suggestion to proceed with kindness and care is great advice..
As for heaven, the thought of no longer being married is a bit daunting. I don’t think I’ve responded like this before. A friend who suddenly became a widow lamented that strongly, yet I didn’t identify with her pain.
I’m not sure why , but your line about ” I hope we remember that we had a thing together that we survived once.” really hit me harder. That might be a conversation starter for me with my husband.
Thank you for taking the time to write your thoughts. Love, Laura
Goodness Julie, this entry makes my heart both warm and ache. It’s stunning what you have invited your parents into with you, and their brave response and the way that they are honoring you is beautiful beyond telling. I love the idea and image of you three sitting together, reading your stories to one another; for the gift of you seeing a story through their words; for the holy experience it must be for them to honor your story, your experience, your heart. You elicit in my a desire to be so brave, to take such a risk, and to hope that it might lead to something so good. Thank you.
Thank you for your response. It is now several months later, and we have begun another cycle of story work. There is much goodness that is coming from it. One thing I have noticed is that now I feel a genuine response coming from them and towards them in my body. Meaning, now I am beginning to actually FEEL the love they have for me as well as the love I desire to have for them. They are actually speaking words of affirmation to ME (rather than to everyone else about me but not directly to me) and I am believing them and not putting up a wall of protection. These are still uncharted waters, but we are navigating them together and learning new things.
I loved this piece! There seems to be strength and grace in you and between you and your parents to be able to reflect on your stories together. Your writing stirred a deep longing in me to be able to hear my parent’s perspectives on our shared stories as well as hope to be able to do this in some form with my children one day. I’m so curious to know what they see, how they interpret it and how it’s forming them (they’re 6 and under).
Thank you for your patience with my incredibly delayed response! Thank you for naming that the work involves strength and grace. I needed to be reminded of those words today. We have begun another round of story engagement and continue to move towards each other with kindness and curiosity. As to engagement with my own children, I find that the 4 adults (20-26) are more able/willing to engage and the 4 tweens/teens just think anything I say about story is “cringey.” When everyone is together and stories come up, they are more open. For me it is about hearing their perspectives and not correcting them but acknowledging their individual realities. And with 8 kids there are A LOT of realities going on simultaneously. I love the curiosity and hope that you hold and wish you the best as you engage your story.
Wow, such a bold invitation to your parents, that has paid off in such beautiful ways. Their response is hopeful – that there is the possibility of curiosity and sorrow more than defensiveness. And your willingness to risk vulnerability is what paved the way – bravo!
Thank you for naming that it took bold risk for me to engage my parents with vulnerability. I am still learning about myself. Those words are not ones I associate with me, but they continue to come up about me from others. Seeing myself as a bold risk taker gives more language to work with, which is helpful, because I am about all of the words. I know this response comes late, but reading your comment came at the perfect time. Thank you for that.