So How Does This One End?

"Nothing spoils a story more than a weak or inappropriate ending." 
- Roy Peter Clark, Help! for Writers

In my last post, I referred to the importance of leads in the writing process and the connection with "conversational leads" that people use, particularly in apologies. Tonight I look at the flip-side: the necessity for a strong ending.

The quote I lead with says it all: write a strong ending, and it will crown the passionate prose in the middle. Muddle it up or coast to the finish line, and no one will remember the middle anyway.

As it goes in writing, so it goes in life. I think back to some of the endings to stories in my life and feel the weight of Clark's statement.

I remember the ending at Towanda. Camp Towanda was a summer camp where Emily and I worked the summer before we got married. We both had one year of college left and decided that summer freedom was there for the taking, so we took: we met a guy named "Z" on the UNI campus during a summer work fair who convinced us to come live in Northeast Pennsylvania for 10 weeks over the summer and work the camp. 

I'm tempted to fill the space here with cliches about how great the summer was, but they will be just that - empty words. They will not bring the story to life. I could write books about my experiences that summer, and I hope I do some day. Working with other twenty-somethings from most U.S. states and several countries from around the world, along with the couple hundred Jewish kids attending the camp all summer long, has a way of treating you to life experiences. Our summer at Towanda is not a story; it's a volume.

But that volume has a clear chronology, a beginning and a middle, and suddenly the end was upon us. The ending of the story needed to fit. And it did. As Clark wrote, nothing could have spoiled this haloed time more than a forgettable ending. Instead, I'll remember that night forever. It was an hours-long party at a small-town bar, pitchers of Yuengling Black and Tan flowing, a consistent, raucous din of uproarious laughter and back-slapping and tears and Aussie-slang. We tried to make time stand still, just for a minute; but it didn't. After a few short hours of sleep in a hotel room crowded with Israelis, my future wife and I got up, hugged our two newest lifelong friends, shed a few tears, and closed the story. The concluding paragraph fit masterfully.

Our Sutherland story ended just as perfectly. In English class I teach something called "circular structure" or "framing." In a frame, the conclusion refers back to the lead. It's an effective way to make sure that whatever you're beginning with, it's important and relevant enough that it will make a powerful end as well. Our Sutherland days ended at a grill-out with our friends on the farm of my assistant coach, the same one who invited me to come meet my new team at a grill-out when we first moved there.

My senior year of high school basketball was filled with victories and top ten rankings and endless success. I don't remember any of that nearly as well as I remember the ugly upset we endured at the hands of our rivals well-before the state tournament glory we had envisioned. On too many days, I remember the bitterness of saying goodbye to my beloved teaching and coaching job at Nora Springs under circumstances I didn't think were best for anybody, rather than remembering three of the best years of my career.

The ending matters. No matter how well you've done something, or how good a relationship is, a faulty goodbye, a half-effort near the finish line, or an abrupt and misplaced word can alter the taste of the story so much that the middle of it barely rings true anymore.

I will remember that this month, this final month with my seniors. Five years down the road, for most of them I'll probably be just somebody else whose class they had once upon a time. I know there are some things that I do wrong in the classroom, but I'm also pretty sure that I get a couple of things right. In our final month together, I'll either punctuate my strengths and leave them remembering my classroom fondly, regardless of the demanding schedule I held them to; or instead I'll coast, letting distraction and busyness and grading and self-focus slowly separate us until it was like we never spent a year or three together at all.

We've all been given time. Time to work, time for relationships, time to parent, even time for vacations. And time ends. There will be a close to all of the stories you and I are currently in. Finish those stories strong. The magnitude of the middle depends on it.

In Writing and Apologies, The Lead Says it All

English teachers like myself work tirelessly trying to teach our students the importance of a good lead.

A lead is the first thing a reader will see, introducing the content and the tone and the reliability of the piece. It provides a statement in it's attempt to lure the reader not only regarding the subject matter at hand, but also the type of reader whose attention it is attempting to grasp. A good lead speaks volumes in approximately 100 words or less.

Roy Peter Clark, one of my favorite writers about writing, even went so far as to rank the leads of Pulitzer Prize submissions, citing one in particular that effectively uses 25 semicolons. Now that one goes straight to the heart of this grammar guru, dangling that prize on a shiny hook.

It is in a lead that we learn where a piece of writing is headed, and it's also a great indicator of where a conversation is headed. I have found that's especially true if the conversation is an apology.

The apology I write about today was a fairly public one. Another star in the world of professional sports acted boorish and awful, exploding in a tantrum of arrogance and villainy. Which is fine unless you're caught on tape. She was. The apology came a day later, through Twitter, America's favorite place for apologies.

The apology was fine. It hinted at remorse. It accepted responsibility. It could have been dowright genuine. Except. . .

There was a qualifier. That qualifier came in the form of the lead, the first couple of words, the attention-getting precursor that shines a light onto the truth of what is coming. Her lead? "In an intense and stressful moment. . ."

And there it is. As a reader, I can stop there. The tone is set. I can see where this is going. My actions were bad, I'm sorry, there's no excuse for what I did, except for the one I'm leading with. Even though she's taking full responsibility, it isn't really her fault. Her emotions got the best of her. She was pushed into these actions by extreme provocation. Her guard was down. This isn't who she really is.

Except that it is. It is a tired excuse, but an age old one. I was tired. I was really frustrated. I was having a bad day. I was at my wits end. I was just really upset and I took it out on you. But the reality of frustration and stress and fatigue and irritation is that our "guard" is, in fact, down. The guard that we put up to protect others from our real selves, the carefully crafted persona, thick and vibrant as makeup, is only a facade. That is who we want to be. Or perhaps more likely, who we want others to think that we are.

But behind that mask is who we really are. And that mask gets washed away under intensity and fatigue. Who are you really? You are who you are when you are unguarded, unprepared, unexpecting, and bare of all comforts. How do you treat you're wife when you're tired? How does your parenting change under duress? What words and behaviors accompany you in a gym or a field when an official's call goes against you? What kind of a student, employee, sibling, and citizen are you when you haven't been treated well? Or, as Snickers commercials have so entertainingly reminded us, when you're "hangry"?

It's an important question. Duress doesn't bring out the worst in everyone; it just brings out the most real. And rather than excusing away our behavior on those days, perhaps we more appropriately can use those days to see just how loving, just how open-minded, just how forgiving and patient we are.

I've come to understand that most days I get a chance to see this. Most days I will get tired, stressed, frustrated, or wronged. If I'm going to face the real me on most days, then I better go to work improving the real me that everyone will see.

You Gotta Look Where You Want to Skate, Even If It's Backwards

I do not have fond memories of roller skating when I was a kid.

Skating for me couldn't have been all bad; I remember voluntary returning for several trips to the skating rink for assorted occasions. But I don't remember anything good. Poor coordination, little experience, and an unwillingness to be taught much of anything conspired against me. I vividly recall a wooden bench attached to the wall around the perimeter of the rink, mid-shin high, that I routinely used to immediately stop all forward momentum. Purposeful movement with a specific target in mind was routinely interrupted by unexpected falls. Perhaps most painful of all were all the times the lights went down, the speakers crooned some love ballad, and skaters were instructed to take the hand of their beloved, all while I watched said beloved skate hand-in-hand with someone else. In hindsight, it was probably for the best. Injuring the secret objection of my affection probably wouldn't have done much for my love life either.

My daughters have attended a few skating events now, and I know that I've passed down my inferior genetic material to my oldest. It took her a while to get at least a little comfortable out on 8 wheels. When she asked me if I wanted to go skating with her at the most recent opportunity, I politely declined. I just don't skate, I explained to her. Too much pain. No skill. Many crashes. I winced when I explained this to her, just to emphasize my ineptitude.

"No problem, Dad," was her response. "I can teach you. Just like someone taught me last time." I was listening. There was nothing she could say that would change my mind, but I was listening. "Wherever your eyes go, that's where your skates will go. You gotta look where you want to skate. That's the secret."

I have no idea the validity of this advice. It could be meaningless or spot-on, and I'll never know. No more crashes for me. But it seems to have worked for her. Also, it's advice that's stayed with me that I think has further practical application. It's all about where you're looking.

You are headed - mind, body, and soul - wherever your eyes go. Your line of sight speaks volumes for your goals. Where do you spend most of your time looking? At the markets? At your spouse? At literature? At Facebook? At Amazon? At your television? At the flaws of your house? For wherever you look, that's where you'll go, whether that's somewhere or nowhere, feast or frustration.

In 2 Peter 3:14, Peter writes, "So then, dear friends, since you are looking forward to this, make every effort to be found spotless, blameless, and at peace." The "this" in verse 14 refers to "the coming of the day of God."

The vision of Christ-followers should be dominated by looking forward towards eternity and the day of the Lord. And keeping our eyes fixed there should affect our heart and behavior. It's when we lose sight that we falter.

Those today clinging to Biblical truth in the face of the moral momentum of the masses face the accusation of being not forward-focused, but "backward thinking." They are accused of not joining the modern world in their desire to hold on to a forgotten time.

Backward thinking? I embrace that label too. Go ahead and heap "intolerant" on as well. Because you're right - I am stuck in the past. My point of focus reaches all the way back to the cross.

That's where I'm skating. When my eyes are on the target, all 8 wheels are on a smooth backwards ride. And when I follow my daughter's advice, it's a crash-free and joy-filled journey, lack of coordination be damned, all the way there. I'm even ready for a little limbo music.

"All About That Bass," and my Bilingual Home

After my girls and I got into the car while coming out of Target last Saturday while shopping for Emily's birthday presents, the radio was barely audible. At the first stop light, though, my 7-year old excitedly yelled to the front seat, "Turn it up! I like this song! Turn it up!" I learned many years ago that on most days I've given up the right to the driving music, so I acquiesced and gave her some volume. I didn't recognize the song until inundated with the chorus:

"I'm all about that bass, 'bout that bass. I'm all about that bass. . ."

While no avowed expert on pop culture, I can at least comprehend that the premise of the song is a celebration of the singer's backside and her ability to shake it. Apparently the singer has "all the right junk in all the right places."

So that was my rather instructional Saturday morning.

I'm fairly certain that my daughter's eternal soul isn't in jeopardy because she's heard this song or finds it catchy. If it is, I'm in trouble; I myself couldn't get the cursed chorus out of my head all afternoon. But it did get me thinking: how? It's not like we've put up some kind of brick wall around our kid and the rest of the culture, banning all hints of secular society from her. But this music? In our house, we play Johnny Cash, CCR, hymns, and classic 90's hits from back when music was really music. How did these lyrics become a part of her lexicon?

Later that afternoon while doing yard work, which is the absolute clearest time to think about anything of this nature, I was reminded of our friends that we stayed with in Austin, Texas over Spring Break. Both husband and wife are bilingual, speaking both Spanish and English. She grew up in Costa Rica; he in central Iowa. Before they had kids, I was intrigued to listen to them switch back and forth when in conversation with each other, depending on the central topic of said conversation and any audience with whom they shared the conversation. Now, however, they have two kids - one almost four and the other closing in on his first birthday. They now speak only Spanish in the home.

Obviously I asked why when we were there. I was exceedingly jealous that they were able to raise their kids bilingually and begin their language education at such an early age. But why just Spanish at home? "They get English everywhere else," my friend told me. "Everywhere they go in the city - school, church, stores - they hear English." So the home became their best chance at consistent Spanish dialogue.

Their oldest is smart enough to switch back and forth depending on audience. All conversation with his parents was in Spanish; with me and my family, he spoke English. Once I exhausted the 15-20 Spanish words I know, I let him teach me some. But he recognized a poser when he saw one. Fortunately, he refrained from giving me condescending looks when he had to switch to English. I found it all fascinating.

This experience came to mind on Saturday. We have a "language of the home" as well, and it's not "All About That Bass." We have other values that we hope run counter to pop culture, other ways of speaking our worldview and priorities. I hope our home sounds profoundly different than many corners of society. But I realize now that it has to. I've got to make sure to speak full-time "Dykstra Family Dialect" and all that it entails in the home, not switching back and forth into "world-speak" or dwarfing into some weird hybrid. They get the world's language and priorities everywhere else. If I want them to know our language, I've got to be purposeful about using that language at all times during our hours together.

My friend admitted to me that he worries about the day down the road when his son comes to talk to him and the conversation requires English due to vocabulary or nuances of situation. English, he admitted, will most likely become his sons' dominant language over time.

Now I understand that very real fear. I want my girls to be in the world and effective in it. Effective at communicating, effective at service and sympathy, effective at navigating adventures and obstacles. But I don't want them to become of the world. I don't want that to become their dominant language. And that fear highlights all the more my responsibilities at home. Without purposeful effort, they could lose their native language.

And whether that entails UNO trash talk or a Biblical worldview, I want them armed with the language of their homeland.

An Ordinary Post That I Want to be Read Anyway

It's intimidating to be in front of the screen, fingers on keyboard, cursor blinking, after an absence. I've had a lot of excuses not to get blog posts written regularly as of late, and I've made a fair share of excuses when they weren't readily available. But I set aside tonight, saying that tonight I will write. I had three different ideas for a post at different times today, three different topics that came to my head along with two or three sentences that sounded just right. They're all three of them gone. Just gone. I jotted down those ideas on scraps of paper, paper that didn't come home with me; now I'm left with the ordinary.

It's the ordinary that makes this intimidating. After a long period of not writing much for public consumption, I feel like I should have something of huge significance to say. If I'm going to trouble you with words on a screen and ask you to spend your time on them, they should be extraordinary. They should be revelatory. They should be immediately quotable in pieces and possess great depth as a whole and be shared and liked and retweeted and favorited. But I don't have that. I just have the ordinary.

But the ordinary moves too. The ordinary makes a statement. More accurately, the ordinary is a reminder, an inconstant but relentless reminder to me the writer and you the reader that this is what I do. On good days and on bad, when inspired and when not, when attempting to change hearts and minds (my own included) or just getting words down, I am here. And writing is what I expect from me.

Doing the ordinary is sometimes, or perhaps most times, a greater sign of commitment. When you do the ordinary, you do it without the expectation of being impressive. You do it with the likelihood that you will not be praised, that you may not even be noticed; but you do it anyway, because that's who you are and who you want to be.

You do the ordinary in no special way on no special day - it's not a birthday or an anniversary or a first day. In fact, it's probably a Wednesday.

The ordinary is getting your kids breakfast every morning. Boring old breakfast: the same tired cereal from the same tired stack of bowls with a cup of juice fifteen minutes before walking out the door. You do it because you are Mom, or Dad, or Grandma, or Grandpa, and that's who you want to be. So you do that, and you know you'll do the ordinary old laundry later, one more unnoticed time, just like yesterday, because you are making a statement of love in the ordinary.

The ordinary is smiling. Just smiling. To walk into your office or your classroom or the grocery store or your kitchen, wherever it is that you will first see people in the morning, and smile - smile despite the car trouble or the rain or the work or the crappy job you're stuck in or the disappointment from your last ordinary act. That smile communicates devotion.

The ordinary is picking up your husband's socks (thanks, Dear). Or cleaning up supper. Or being the first one in the marriage after a disagreement to break the touch and/or silence barrier by telling a joke or asking a question.

The ordinary is practicing when no one is watching, praying where no one will see you, being excellent at a report or an assignment that few will see, and taking a minute to text a friend rather than default to checking Facebook or Twitter or Trivia Crack.

No one is going to have much praise for the ordinary. But the ordinary will make you who you want to be. The ordinary will begin or save a relationship. The ordinary, performed often enough, will speak of extraordinary character.

And so I write ordinary words tonight. No crafty metaphors. No meticulously woven connections. No illuminating diction. Just words. But my ordinary words that few will read remind me: this is who I want to be.